SWEET    HOME; 


OE, 


FRIENDSHIP'S 

GOLDEN   ALTAR 


EDITED     BY 


PRANCES    E.   PERCIVAL. 


"  From  every  land  and  every  lot, 
From  palace  hall  and  lowly  cot, 
To  HOME,  which  ne'er  can  be  forgot, 
The  mind  goes  straying  back." 


BOSTON: 
L.   P.   CROWX  &  GO.,    61   CORNHILL. 

PHILADELPHIA  : 
J.  TV.  BRADLEY,   48  NORTH   FOURTH   STREET. 

1856. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

L.  P.  CROWN  *  CO , 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


AT  TOT 
BOSTON    8TEBBOITPI    FOUXDRT. 


'6) 


PREFACE. 


THERE  is  no  place  like  HOME  1  It  may  be  a  rude, 
rough  home,  at  the  foot  of  some  stern,  snow-clad 
mountain ;  but  wherever  we  wander,  we  look  back  to 
it  with  the  utmost  interest.  The  object  of  this  book 
js  to  awaken  the  memories  of  home  —  to  remind  us 
of  the  old  scenes  and  old  times,  and  kindle  on  old 
hearthstones  the  old  fires.  It  will  assist  us  in  living 
over  past  days,  and  we  shall  murmur,  — 

"  Give  me  my  old  seat,  mother, 

With  my  head  upon  thy  knee  ; 
I've  passed  through  many  a  changing  scene 

Since  thus  I  sat  by  thee : 
O,  let  me  look  into  thine  eyes  ; 

Their  meek,  soft,  loving  light 
Falls  like  a  gleam  of  holiness 

Upon  my  heart  to-night." 

It  is  well  often  to  go  home,  that  the  free  innocence 
of  childhood  may  be  reflected  from  the  hallowed 
scenes  of  early  days  upon  our  souls,  which  have 
been  checkered  with  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  life. 
'  = 

2050SS2 


PREFACE. 


But  home  lives  only  in  memory  with  some  ;  its  only 
existence  is  in  the  past.  The  cottage  where  we 
were  born  has  been  swept  away,  and  a  statelier 
edifice  rises  on  the  spot ;  the  dear  friends  "of  our 
youth  are  dead,  and  their  bones  lie  in  the  old  church- 
yard, and  we  seldom  go  back  to  that  old  spot.  This 
book  is  designed  to  be  the  memorial  of  the  home 
which  has  faded  away,  and  the  homestead  which  is 
now  demolished  or  acquired  by  another  ;  to  call  up 
old  faces,  and  hang  them  like  portraits  on  the  walls 
of  our  active,  busy  lives ;  to  sketch  like  the  land- 
scape the  well  with  the  old  oaken  bucket,  the  brook 
along  which  we  often  wandered,  the  meadow  with 
its  furrows,  and  the  distant  mountain  with  its  misty 
drapery. 

Some  one  draws  a  picture  of  a  laborer  returning 
at  night  to  his  home  :  "  He  has  borne  the  heat  and 
burden  of  the  day,-  the  descending  sun  has  released 
him  of  his  toil,  and  he  is  hastening  home  to  enjoy 
repose.  Half  way  down  the  lane,  by  the  side  of 
which  stands  his  cottage,  his  children  run  to  meet 
him.  One  he  carries,  and  one  he  leads.  The  com- 
panion of  his  humble  life  is  ready  to  furnish  him 
with  his  plain  repast.  See  his  toil-worn  countenance 
assume  an  air  of  cheerfulness !  His  hardships  are 
forgotten  ;  fatigue  vanishes ;  he  eats,  and  is  satisfied. 
(S)  •  ==< 


=@ 

PREFACE.  5 

The  evening  fair,  he  walks  with  uncovered  head 
around  his  garden  —  enters  again,  and  retires  to 
rest ;  and  '  the  rest  of  the  laboring  man  is  sweet, 
whether  he  eat  little  or  much.' "  So  we  send  this 
volume  to  be  a  companion  for  the  evening  hour,  like 
the  voices  of  his  children,  to  cheer  the  weary  labor- 
ers at  night,  believing  all  its  readers  will  find  it 
pure  in  morals,  elevating  in  its  tone,  cheerful  and 
hopeful  in  its  disposition,  and  reverent  in  all  its 
views  of  God  —  a  transcript  of  home,  sweet  home. 


CONTENTS. 


PROSE. 

PAGE. 

The  Two  Homes , T.  S.  Arthur, 13 

Good  Nature H.  W.  Beecher, 36 

Good  Manners, Charles  Bray, 42 

Milly  Gray, Anonymous, 44 

How  to  be  happy,. Anon., 56 

Not  worth  the  Trouble, Anon., 58 

Saturday  Night, Clara, 63 

Say,  No Anon., 70 

The  Two  Palaces, Puritan, 76 

Fanny  and  Flora Anon., 86 

The  Story  of  the  Firefly, Anon., 89 

Mother,  Mother, Henry  Clay, 104 

Tears, Dr.  Johnson, 108 

Influence  of  "Woman, Daniel  Webster Ill 

Death  of  a  Household  Treasure D.  C.  Eddy, 119 

The  Whole  Family Mrs.  Sedfftoick, 132 

True  Wife, Anon 137 

The  Wayside, Mrs.  E.  H.  Gould 141 

How  she  found  the  Time, Mrs.  Caroline  A.  Soule,  146 

Witty  Women Anon. 164 

Correcting  in  Anger, Watchman, 169 

The  World  of  Mind Anon 173 

True  Words  better  than  Tears Kate  Sutherland, 178 

The  Marriage  Relation Morning  Star, 190 

Little  Bennie, Anon., 197 

Influence  of  an  Unkind  Word, Anon., 200 

Contentment, Anon., 208 


Co) 

CONTENTS. 


Gentleness, Anon., 212 

Incense  from  the  Family  Altar, Anon., 218 

The  Crushed  Bud, Mrs.  E.  M.  Gutkrie,...  226 

Our  Old  Grandmother, Anon., 241 

Charlie  Moss M.  H., 258 


POETRY. 

The  Home  Altar, Mrs.  Hemans, 11 

Woman's  Superiority, Anon., 12 

Views  of  Life J.  D.  Collins, 30 

My  Lost  Youth, Longfellow, 31 

A  Friend, Anon., 35 

To  an  Absent  Husband Mrs.  Newell, "...     40 

First  Love, Anon., 41 

Friends  at  Home, Charles  Swain, 63 

My  Mother, N.  P.  Willis 54 

The  Faults  of  Man, ..Anon., 65 

My  Wife, S.D.  Phelps, 59 

Doubt, Anon., 62 

My  Soul  is  sad, Anon., 67 

The  Old  Playground, Anon., 68 

The  Village  Clock Aldrich, 74 

The  Old  Kirkyard Anon., 82 

The  Tress  of  Hair Portland, -. . . .     83 

I  Can't W.  O.  Bourne, 84 

Come  Home, Anon., 99 

Sorrow  at  the  Cottage, L.  N.  Willy, 100 

Ennui, Anon 101 

Comfort  in  the  Cottage, Susartz, 102 

Some  murmur  when  their  Sky  is  clear,..R.  C.  Trench, 107 

My  Angel  Love, Fanny  Forrester, 109 

There  came  an  Angel Mrs.  H.  E.  C.  Arey,...  114 

Mother,  t Anon., 116 


CONTENTS. 


Be  not  disheartened, Anon., 118 

"When  I  am  old, C.  A.  Briggs, 129 

Pop,  goes  the  Question, Anon., 130 

A  Song, Anon., 134 

The  Forgotten, E.  J.  Porter, 135 

The  Dark  Side Anon., 136 

Brother,  come  Home, Miss  Waterman, 139 

You  remember, Thomas  Haynes  Bayly,.  143 

Nowadays, Anon., 1-14 

She  -woke  that  morn  in  Heaven, Mrs.  H.  Augusta  King,  160 

Maiden  Beauty, '. . .  Charles  Swain, 161 

Give  me  my  old  Seat,  Mother Fanny  Forrester, 162 

A  World  of  Lovej Anon., 163 

To  an  absent  "Wife Anon 165 

Nobody's  Child, J.  W.  Barker, 166 

The  Lyre Mary  Ann  Whitaker, . .  168 

Song  of  the  Pilgrims, Anon., 171 

"Whom  does  the  Lord  love  best, Anon., 176 

Self-conceit, Anon., 177 

Our  Old  Homestead Anon., 188 

Harvest  Home, Anon 195 

Carry  me  Home  to  die Willis, 199 

Creation's  "Work  is  done, C.I.  T.,..^. 206 

Good  Temper Moore, 207 

Homeward  Voyage, Kittie  Clare, 210 

Never  rail  at  the  World, Anon., 215 

O,  hasten  on,  ye  winged  Hours, Clara  Moreton, 216 

Mary's  Dirge, Daystar, 217 

Friendship  and  Love, Anon., 222 

Might  of  Truth, Whiitier, 223 

Summer's  last  Sunset, Anon 224 

Cheer  up J.  S.  Adams, 225 

The  Dewdrop's  Grave, R.  C.  Trench, 236 

Life  is  real E.  M.  Stowell, 237 

Thou  art  the  same, John  B.  Rogerson, ....  239 

A  blest  Relief  in  Tears Julia  M.  Emerson, ....  240 

Let  me  in, Anon.,. 251 


@ 

10  CONTENTS. 


Guardian  Angels, E.  OaJ;es  Smith 253 

I'm  old  to-day, Anon 254 

The  Unthankful, Harmony, 256 

The  Voice  of  her  I  love, Anon 257 

The  Old  Church  Bell, Anon., 267 

We  come  not  back, Anon., 268 

Daily  Duties, Anon., 269 

Flowers, Anon 270 

Beyond  the  River, Anon., 271 


SWEET  HOME 


THE    HOME    ALTAR. 


'TWAS  early  day  —  and  sunlight  stream'd 

Soft  through  a  quiet  room, 
That  hushed,  but  not  forsaken  seemed  — 

Still,  but  with  nought  of  gloom  ; 
For  there,  secure  in  happy  age, 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  father  communed  with  the  page 

Of  Heaven's  recorded  love. 

Pure  fell  the  beam,  and  meekly  bright, 

On  his  gray,  holy  hair, 
And  touched  the  book  with  tenderest  light, 

As  if  its  shrine  were  there  ; 
But  O,  that  patriarch's  aspect  shone 

With  something  lovelier  far  — 
A  radiance,  all  the  spirit's  own, 

Caught  not  from  sun  or  star. 

Some  word  of  life  e'en  then  had  met 
His  calm,  benignant  eye  ; 


12  WOMAN'S  SUPERIORITY. 

Some  ancient  promise,  bregthing  yet 

Of  immortality; 
Some  heart's  deep  language,  where  the  glow 

Of  quenchless  faith  survives  ; 
For  every  creature  said,  "  I  know 

That  my  Redeemer  lives." 

And  silent  stood  his  children  by, 

Hushing  their  very  breath, 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thought  o'er  sweeping  death ; 
Silent  —  yet  did  not  each  young  breast 

With  love  and  reverence  melt  ? 
O,  blessed  be  those  fair  girls  —  and  blest 

That  home  where  God  is  felt. 


WOMAN'S    SUPERIORITY 


WHY  term  the  fair  the  "  weaker  sex  "  ? 

(A  foul  aspersion,  falsely  cast !) 
Behold,  when  worldly  storms  perplex, 

How  bravely  they  can  bide  the  blast ! 

Lord  of  creation,  lower  thy  crest : 
Strive  as  you  may,  do  all  you  can, 

"Woman,  with  all  her  faults  confest, 
Must  still  be  double  YOU,  O  man! 


@—  —  

THE    TWO    HOMES.  13 


THE   TWO   HOMES. 

t    fcTVv 

IN  a  defective  home  education  lies  the  ground- 
work of  much  of  the  evil  that  afflicts  society.  If 
the  thoughts  of  parents  were  more  centred  in  their 
homes,  and  as  earnestly  exercised  in  the  division 
of  ways  and  means  for  rightly  educating  the  moral 
and  intellectual  natures  of  their  children  as  in  pro- 
curing food  and  raiment  for  the  perishing  body, 
they  would  render  a  service  to  society  far  greater 
than  if  they  had  built  a  city  or  founded  a  nation. 
If  mothers  wisely  developed  the  higher  and  better 
sentiments  of  their  sons,  and  cultivated  in  them,  as 
far  as  that  were  possible,  gentleness  and  forbearance 
towards  others,  there  would  be  fewer  unhappy  wives 
in  the*  coming  generation.  Ah,  how  many  forget 
woman's  true  mission !  How  many  forget  that  her 
hands  are  small,  and  soft,  and  all  unfitted  to  grapple 
with  the  hard,  iron  man,  yet  full  of  a  most  wonder- 
ful skill  to  mould  the  pliant  material  of  childhood  ! 
The  world  will  never  be  made  better  through 


14  THE    TWO    HOMES. 


woman's  influence,  as  a  lecturer,  debater,  or  prop- 
agandist. She  has  failed  in  her  work,  and  will  ever 
fail,  in  seeking  to  sway  opinion,  and  create  a  new 
public  sentiment  through  appeals  to  the  matured 
understanding.  She  may  cause  an  ebullition  in  the 
elements  around  her,  and  draw  after  her  a  few  weak 
or  selfishly  interested  followers  ;  but  so  far  she  may 
go,  and  no  farther.  As  a  pebble  cast  into  the  sea, 
she  will  awaken  on  the  surface  a  few  light,  circling 
waves  ;  but  the  waters  will  soon  run  smooth  again, 
and  leave  no  sign  that  she  has  been. 

How  different  the  result  when  limiting  her  efforts 
to  the  powers  conferred  and  the  materials  given  her 
to  work  with  !  In  the  home  circle  she  is  all  potent. 
Her  plastic  hand  is  stretched  forth,  and,  lo,  forms 
of  beauty  grow  under  it,  instinct  with  celestial  life. 
Surrounded  with  young  immortals,  she  is  called  to 
the  honorable  and  holy  office  of  educating  them  for 
a  life  of  eternal  usefulness.  Alas,  that  so  many 
are  insensible  to  the  high  mission  whereunto  they 
are  called  ;  that  so  many  let  the  fair  garden  given 
them  to  tend  lie  clothed  with  weeds,  and  every  good 
plant  to  struggle  in  a  feeble  or  gnarled  growth  ! 
Shall  I  draw  pictures  of  two  homes,  the  one  pre- 
sided over  by  a  vain  self-seeker  —  the  other  by  an 
angel  woman  ?  There  is  instruction  in  such  pictures, 


THE    TWO    HOMES.  15 


and  I  will  endeavor  to  give  them  at  least  a  distinct 
outline. 

Over  the  first  home  to  which  I  shall  introduce  you 
presided  a  woman  who  had  herself  never  known  a 
true  home,  nor  had  the  ideal  of  a  true  home  formed 
in  her  mind.  She  married  with  few  right  ideas  of 
marriage  in  her  thoughts,  and  when  she  became 
a  mother,  simply  loved  herself  in  her  children,  in- 
stead of  loving  them  for  their  own  sakes,  out  of 
herself.  Early  indulgence  was  the  rule  in  every 
case  ;  and  as  this  indulgence  warmed  into  life,  what 
was  evil  in  their  natures,  which  gained  thereby  a 
strong  development,  soon  became  sources  of  sharp 
annoyance  in  the  family,  when  the  fruitless  work 
of  repression  and  control  began  too  late,  and  not 
for  the  sake  of  the  children,  but  for  the  sake  of 
the  parents'  comfort. 

Ever  after,  it  was  an  angry  contest  between  the 
mother  and  her  children  which  should  rule  ;  and 
strife  among  the  children  was  of  daily,  almost  hourly 
occurrence.  Punishment  did  not  cure  this,  for  it 
wrought  no  change  in  the  internal  character.  The 
father,  naturally  a  good  sort  of  a  man,  and  one 
inclined  to  love  home  and  find  his  world  of  enjoy- 
ment there  if  the  home  itself  were  congenial, 
wearied,  as  his  children  grew  older,  of  the  incessant 


©= 


16  THE    TWO    HOMES. 

wrangling  and  scolding  that  made  the  house  a  bed- 
lam, sought  quiet  for  his  evening  hours  among  more 
pleasant  if  not  safer  companions.  Instead  of  striv- 
ing to  change  the  home  element,  and  thus  winning 
him  back  again,  the  wife  assailed  her  husband  with 
cutting  language,  and  thus  made  the  evil  worse. 

One  evening  the  father  came  home  depressed  in 
spirits  from  business  causes,  and  yearning  for  the 
sound  of  a  gentle  voice,  and  the  pressure  of  a  soft 
hand  on  his  forehead.  Such  things  had  once  been, 
in  the  earlier  days  of  his  wedded  life,  and  the 
memory  thereof  in  these  later  times  often  gave  to 
his  heart  a  woman's  softness.  He  was  just  begin- 
ning to  feel  that  danger  lay  in  the  path,  diverging 
from  home,  which  he  was  treading ;  and  the  desire 
to  leave  that  path  was  strong. 

"Ah,"  he  sighed  to  himself,  as  he  drew  nearer 
his  dwelling,  "  if  there  were  peace  and  order,  kind- 
ness and  good  will,  at  home !  What  would  I  not 
give  for  these !  Ah,  if  Mary  would  only  put  a 
bridle  on  her  tongue,  and  substitute  loving  acts  for 
sharp  words,  there  would  be  more  bright  days  for 
us  than  stormy  ones.  And  I'm  sure  the  children 
would  be  more  obedient.  I  wish  I  could  talk  with 
Mary  about  it ;  but  the  attempt  to  do  so  would  only 
make  things  worse.  She  will  not  bear  from  me 


THE    TWO    HOMES.  17 


the  least  suggestion  that  she  is  to  blame  in  any 
thing." 

Thus  musing  the  husband  and  father  walked  home- 
ward. Hoping  for  the  repose  of  mind  he  needed, 
yet  fearful  in  his  hope,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
door  and  entered  his  dwelling.  The  first  sound  that 
reached  his  ears  was  the  voice  of  his  wife,  pitched 
to  a  high  key,  and  giving  utterance  to  some  angry 
denunciation  of  their  oldest  son,  whose  badly-regu- 
lated temper  was  the  cause  of  much  trouble  in  the 
household.  And  the  boy,  unsubdued  by  the  storm, 
was  flinging  back  insolent  words  upon  his  mother. 

"0,  dear!"  groaned  the  father.  "Is  there  to  be 
no  end  to  this  ?  "  And  he  stood  still  in  the  passage 
below,  his  head  bowed,  and  his  heart  throbbing  with 
sudden  pain.  A  few  moments  he  stood  thus,  while 
the  storm  raged  on  above  with  even  increasing 
violence.  Then  with  a  kind  of  hopeless  abandon- 
ment of  feeling,  he  turned  and  passed  from  the 
house.  Far  pleasanter  companionship  had  he  found 
within  the  doors  of  a  neighboring  tavern  than  in 
the  place  designated,  almost  in  mockery,  his  home  ; 
and  thither,  after  walking  up  one  street  and  down 
another  for  half  an  hour,  he  went.  Ah,  what  a 
struggle  did  his  mind  pass  through  in  that  hour ! 
"Home!"  there  had  ever  been  a  charm  to  him  in 


18  THE    TWO    HOMES. 

the  word.  But  how  had  all  the  beauty  that  lived  in 
his  imagination  faded  in  the  hard  and  harsh  reality 
that  came  to  him  !  Still  the  ideal  was  not  obliter- 
ated ;  and  when  he  turned  into  the  tavern,  as  a  kind 
of  house  of  refuge,  it  was  with  a  sad  sense  of  the 
poor  substitute  it  offered  for  a  real  home. 

A  few  minutes  after  the  father  retired  from  his 
house,  the  son,  stung  to  madness  by  the  cutting  lan- 
guage of  his  mother,  exclaimed, — 

"  If  you  talk  that  way  to  me,  I  won't  stay  in  the 
house." 

"Go,  and  as  quickly  as  you  please,"  was  the 
thoughtless,  angry  retort.  "You're  nothing  but  a 
trouble  here." 

The  boy  turned  off  instantly,  and  ere  the  mother 
had  time  to  reflect  was  gone.  The  heavy  slamming 
of  the  front  door  jarred  painfully  on  her  spirit. 
"What  had  she  done?  "Was  that  ill-regulated,  pas- 
sionate boy  fit  to  be  driven  forth  thus  into  the  dark- 
ness, where  temptation  lay  in  wait  for  its  victims  at 
every  street  corner?  (the  thought  sobered  her. 
Suddenly  the  raging  storm  in  her  bosom  died  away, 
and  there  was  a  pulseless  calm,  but  only  in  the  at- 
mosphere where  angry  elements  had  been  in  conten- 
tion ;  the  deep  ground-swell  surged  painfully  in  her 
heart,  and  the  clearer  and  stiller  became  the  air  in 


THE    TWO    HOMES.  19 


which  perception  and  thought  now  ruled,  the  heavier 
rolled  the  waves  of  emotion  below. 

Out  after  the  boy  went  her  thoughts,  anxiously, 
fearfully.  Where  would  he  go  ?  At  first  she  said 
to  herself,  "  O,  he'll  soon  come  back  again  ;  it's 
only  a  little  pet."  But  the  fear  that  he  might  not 
come  back  troubled  her  more  and  more  with  every 
passing  moment. 

"  I  wish  his  father  would  come  home,"  she  at 
length  said  to  herself.  "What  can  keep  him  so 
late?"  It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  since  he,  too, 
had  left  the  house,  driven  out  in  a  moment  of  weak- 
ness by  the  voice  whose  every  tone  should  have  been 
a  spell  to  bind  him  to  their  hearthstone. 

But  the  hours  went  slowly  by,  one  after  another, 
and  neither  father  nor  son  came  home.  When  the 
clock  struck  eleven,  the  mother  was  almost  frantic. 
She  had  taken  her  bonnet  and  shawl  from  the  closet, 
and  was  preparing  to  go  for  a  neighbor,  when  the 
bell  rung.  She  almost  flew  down  stairs,  and  swung 
open  the  door.  It  was  her  husband,  and  he  passed 
in  without  replying  to  her  quick  interrogation,  or 
seeming  to  notice  her.  But  she  saw,  as  her  eyes 
followed  him,  that  his  steps  were  unsteady.  All 
her  strength  seemed  to  go  instantly.  For  some 
moments  her  heart  ceased  to  beat.  It  was  with 


1   20 


THE    TWO    HOMES. 


difficulty  that  she  made  her  way  into  the  parlor, 
where  she  sank  upon  a  chair,  with  scarcely  the 
strength  of  an  infant  remaining.  Nearly  five  min- 
utes elapsed  ere  she  had  power  to  make  her  way  up 
to  their  chamber,  and  then  she  found  her  husband 
in  bed,  and  fast  asleep. 

All  that  night  the  wretched  wife  and  mother  was 
a  lonely,  weeping  watcher ;  but  she  waited  in  vain 
for  the  return  of  her  first  born.  The  boy,  who  had 
gone  forth  in  anger,  came  not  back.  Daylight  found 
her  sleeping  wearily  in  a  chair,  with  her  face  bowed 
upon  a  table  ;  nature  had  yielded,  and  gathered 
around  her  sad  spirit  the  shadows  of  oblivion. 
>**Only  half  conscious  was  the  husband  and  father, 
on  awaking,  of  the  condition  in  which  he  had  come 
home  on  the  night  previous.  But  he  expected  harsh 
words  from  his  wife,  and  prepared  himself  to  repel 
them. 

"0  John!  John!  How  could  you?"  Thus, 
in  a  half  distressed,  half-rebuking  voice,  began 
the  wife ;  but  he  checked  her  speech  by  the  quick 
retort,  — 

"  There,  now,  keep  your  tongue  off  of  me  ;  I  won't 
bear  it ! " 

The  sad,  grieving  woman  was  too  deeply  smitten 
for  anger.  Covering  her  face  with  her  apron,  she 


THE   TWO    HOMES.  21 

sobbed  violently.  Without  seeming  to  notice  this, 
her  husband  arose  and  commenced  dressing  himself. 
After  gaining  a  partial  control  of  her  feelings,  she 
said,  — 

"  Do  you  know  where  John  is  ?" 

"  In  bed,  I  suppose.     Where  else  should  he  be  ?  " 

"0,  no.  He  hasn't  been  in  all  night,"  was  an- 
swered, with  a  fresh  gush  of  tears. 

"  Not  in  all  night !  How  comes  that  ?  He  was 
home  early  in  the  evening,  wasn't  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  got  angry  at  something  I  said  to 
him,  and  went  off." 

"  Humph  !  "  was  the  rather  rough  response.  "  I 
don't  much  wonder  that  he  did.  He's  tired,  I  sup- 
pose, like  his  father,  of  this  eternal  wrangling  and 
scolding.  I  heard  you  at  it  when  I  came  home 
from  the  store  last  evening." 

"  You  ?  "    The  wife's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Yes  ;  and  as  I  wanted  peace  rather  than  war,  I 
took  myself  off.  And  I  suppose  John  did  the  same. 
Poor  boy !  If  he  goes  to  ruin,  he  will  have  only 
his  mother  to  blame.  If  there  is  not  sunshine  at 
home,  the  children  will  seek  it  somewhere  else." 

Chafed  by  these  words,  spoken  in  no  kind  mood, 
the  unhappy  wife  threw  back  upon  her  husband  a 
shower  of  angry,  almost  vehement,  accusations, 


22  THE    TWO    HOMES. 


which  ended  in  his  leaving  the  house  before  the 
morning  ineal  was  served.  The  whole  of  the  day 
he  spent  in  fruitless  searches  for  his  absent  son,  and 
came  back  at  evening,  weary,  fretted,  and  troubled. 

He  had  drank  several  times  during  the  day  rather 
freely,  and  this  did  not  increase  his  better  feelings. 

"  John  hasn't  come  home  yet.  Have  you  seen  any 
thing  of  him  ?  "  were  the  mother's  anxious  words 
as  he  came  in. 

"  No ; "  was  the  short,  gruff  answer. 

"  Where  can  he  be  ?  " 

"  Heaven  knows  !     I  don't  1 " 

"  Can't  you  hear  any  thing  of  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

Word  followed  word,  until  the  husband  and  wife 
grew  too  impatient  with  each  other  to  forbear  the 
spirit  of  accusation.  A  quarrel  ensued,  which  ended 
in  the  former  leaving  the  house,  and  spending  his 
evening  at  a  tavern,  from  which  he  came  home,  late, 
in  a  worse  condition  than  on  the  night  before. 

We  are  not  going  to  trace,  step  by  step,  all  the 
progressive  stages  in  the  downward  course  of  this 
unhappy  family,  consequent  upon  those  whose  duty 
it  was  to  make  the  home  circle  attractive  failing  in 
that  high  and  important  duty.  John  had  gone  to 
the  house  of  a  lad  with  whom  he  was  acquainted, 

(Q) 


@ 

THE   TWO    HOMES.  23 


where  he  staid  all  night.  On  the  next  day,  in  a  fit 
of  desperation,  he  went  on  board  a  trading  vessel, 
about  leaving  for  some  South  American  port,  and 
when  she  sailed  he  sailed  with  her ;  and  he  did  so 
without  leaving  behind  a  single  clew  by  which  his 
parents  could  trace  him. 

From  that  time  the  father  seemed  to  lose  both 
self-control  and  self-respect.  Attractions  outside  of 
home  grew  stronger,  and  the  home  attractions 
weaker.  There  was  no  government  of  the  children, 
on  the  part  of  the  wife,  except  the  government  of 
force ;  and  this  kept  up  an  ever-beginning,  never- 
ending  storm. 

Four  years  passed  ere  there  came  a  word  from 
the  absent  one.  Then  he  returned  a  rough,  profane 
sailor,  to  find  his  father  a  sot,  and  even  the  few  rays 
of  sunshine  that  now  and  then  gilded  their  home 
when  he  left  shut  out  forever.  On  the  second  day 
of  his  return,  he  quarrelled  with  both  father  and 
mother,  struck  his  sister  an  angry  blow,  and  then 
left  them  again,  with  curses,  not  blessings. 

A  year  or  two  more  and  the  heart-broken  mother 
found  rest  in  the  grave,  while  the  children  were 
scattered  like  sere  leaves  in  the  blasts  of  October. 

Turn  we  now  to  the  picture  of  another  home.     If, 
<S)  =  =<§) 


24  THE    TWO    HOMES. 


alas !  there  are  many  homes  like  the  one  from  which 
we  have  drawn  aside  the  curtain  for  a  moment,  there 
are  also  many  homes  in  our  land  where  the  sunshine 
of  love  falls  daily  with  a  brightness  no  clouds  can 
wholly  obscure  ;  where  only  the  attractive,  not  the 
repellent,  forces  exist.  Such  a  home  was  that  over 
which  Mrs.  Florence  presided.  No,  we  will  not  say 
"  presided ; "  that  is  too  formal  and  stately  a  word. 
In  such  a  home  she  was  the  sweet  attractive  centre, 
towards  which  all  hearts  were  drawn.  Unselfish 
love  was  the  bond  of  union. 

Mrs.  Florence  had  been  blest  with  a  wise  and 
good  mother.  How  much  is  told  in  that!  With 
good  principles,  well-regulated  affections,  and  right 
views  of  life,  she  entered  the  marriage  state,  chosen 
by  one  who  looked  past  the  attractive  exterior  to 
the  qualities  that  lay  hidden  in  the  very  ground- 
work of  character.  When  beautiful  children  blessed 
this  union,  —  children  in  whom  all  infantine  loveli- 
ness centred,  —  the  father  and  mother  did  not  forget 
in  their  pride  and  joy,  that  germs  of  evil  lay  hidden 
in  the  hearts  of  their  now  pure  offspring,  surely  to  be 
developed.  True  love,  therefore,  prompted  a  most 
watchful  care  and  a  wise  discrimination.  Not  so 
much  in  the  firm  repression  of  evil  in  its  first  scarcely 
seen  development  was  this  manifested,  as  in  the 

(o)  =     — -<8> 


(o. 

THE    TAVO    HOMES.  25 


cultivation  of  opposite  affections.  The  effort  was  to 
direct  all  the  young  minds'  active  powers  into  good 
forms,  giving  them  a  vigorous  growth,  and  leaving 
the  evil  inclinations,  like  sickly  plants,  to  die  out, 
or  only  retain  a  feeble  hold  upon  life.  When  evil 
came  into  a  more  than  usually  strong  manifestation, 
genuine  love  for  her  children  kept  the  mother's 
spirit  calm  and  her  judgment  cool.  She  thought  not 
of  her  own  ease  or  pleasure,  but  of  the  good  of  her 
beloved  ones  —  the  young  immortals  given  her  to 
educate  for  a  higher  life. 

And  so  in  this  home,  over  which  an  angel  woman 
presided,  grew  no  weeds  in  rank  luxuriance,  to  bear 
fruits  of  discord  and  disunion.  But  let  us  come  a 
little  nearer. 

A  day  of  severe  trial  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and 
the  thoughts  of  Mr.  Florence  were  turning  home- 
wards. Many  such  days  of  trial,  accompanied  by 
exhausting  mental  labor,  were  his  allotment  in  life, 
and  but  for  the  sweet  repose  and  loving  ministra- 
tions of  home,  his  spirit  would  have  become  soured 
or  grown  moody  and  fretful.  There  had  been  much 
on  this  day  to  disturb  and  depress  him,  and  thought 
still  dwelt  earnestly  on  the  trouble  and  disappoint- 
ments through  which  he  had  passed  as  his  steps 
bent  homeward.  Still  thrown  backward  were  his 


(S) 


(o)-          •  — 

26  THE    TWO    HOMES. 


thoughts,  and  still  the  shadow  was  on  his  spirits, 
when  he  stood  with  his  hand  on  his  own  door. 

Nor  had  the  day  passed  in  sunshine  with  Mrs. 
Florence.  A  bad-tempered  domestic,  when  firmly 
remonstrated  with  for  her  neglect  of  duty,  had 
grown  insolent,  and  left  the  house.  In  consequence, 
though  weak  in  body  from  a  recent  indisposition, 
Mrs.  Florence  had  double  work  to.  perform,  in  order 
to  meet  the  wants  of  her  family.  "When  evening 
shadows  began  to  fall,  a  cloud  was  on  her  spirits. 
There  had  been  a  slight  pain  through  one  temple 
for  some  hours,  and  this,  added  to  weakness,  dis- 
turbed thought,  and  exhaustion,  unstrung  her  nerves 
completely.  She  felt  strangely  irritable,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  she  could  at  times  repress  an  im- 
patient word  towards  her  children,  who  seemed  bent 
on  doing  just  such  things  as  were  particularly  an- 
noying. 

Tims  it  was  when  Mr.  Florence  turned  his  steps 
homeward.  As  he  opened  the  door,  there  came  to 
his  ears  soft  music  from  lightly  falling  fingers,  and  a 
low,  sweet  voice  stole  into  his  heart  like  the  voice 
of  a  consoling  spirit.  What  a  lifting  up  of  shadows 
there  was !  What  a  streaming  in  of  sunshine  upon 
his  darkened  spirit! 

Depressed,  wearied,  and  exhausted  as  she  was,  a 


THE    TWO    HOMES.  27 

losing  thought  of  her  husband  soon  to  come  home 
qubkeneu  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Florence  with  a  new 
life. 

"  He  must  find  a  better  welcome  than  this,"  said 
she  to  herself ;  and  so  she  made  a  hurried  toilet, 
spoke  a  few  timely  words  in  the  right  spirit  to  her 
children,  restoring  thereby  that  harmony  among 
them  which  had .  been  slightly  disturbed,  and  then 
drew  them  to  the  parlor  with  the  promise  of  music, 
that  always  acted  like  a  spell  upon  their  spirits. 
And  thus  it  was  when  the  husband  and  father  came 
home  —  the  mother  at  the  piano,  with  her  children 
around  her,  singing  to  them  an  old,  familiar  song  of 
home. 

"When  Mr.  Florence  closed  the  door  behind  him 
on  that  evening,  he  shut  out  the  world  ;  and  when 
he  joined  his  family,  he  came  in  sunshine  instead  of 
shadows.  How  little  thought  Mrs.  Florence  that 
the  light  which  pervaded  the  room  on  his  entrance 
was  only  the  sunshine  from  her  own  unselfish  spirit 
thrown  back  upon  her  with  added  brightness !  Yet 
it  was  even  so.  The  loving  kiss  on  her  forehead, 
how  it  warmed  even  to  her  heart !  And  how  full  of 
consoling  tenderness  was  the  voice  that  said,  — 

"  Is  not  our  home  a  type  of  Eden  ?  " 

Was  she  not"  rewarded  for  her  self-constraining 

(Q): _  _  (3) 


Co)-  —  (5) 

28  THE    TWO    HOMES. 

effort,  though  made  in  weariness  and  pain  ?  0,  yes  ; 
a  thousand  thousand  fold.  Not  once  did  the  shad- 
ot^s  return  to  either  heart  that  evening.  How  dif- 
ferent it  might  have  been,  both  with  parents  and 
children,  it  takes  no  effort  of  the  imagination  to  see. 
It  is  with  gloomy  spirits  as  with  clouds  —  the  whole 
atmosphere  grows  darker  when  they  meet. 

"  This  has  been  one  'of  my  trial  days,"  said  Mrs. 
Florence  to  her  husband,  after  the  children  were  in 
bed,  and  they  sat  alone.  Her  voice,  as  she  spoke, 
fell  to  a  more  subdued  tone,  and  a  slight  shade  of 
care  threw  a  dim  veil  over  her  countenance. 

Mr.  Florence  leaned  towards  her  sympathizingly, 
and  she  told  him,  though  not  in  a  complaining  or 
desponding  voice,  of  the  trials  through  which  she 
had  passed.  He  answered  with  encouraging  words, 
and  made  suggestions  in  which  her  thoughts  rested. 
How  deeply  he  was  touched,  as  it  became  apparent 
that,  to  welcome  him  to  a  cheerful  home,  she  had 
repressed  her  excited  feelings,  and  even  in  pain  and 
weariness  compelled  herself  to  awaken  a  melody  in 
the  air  to  greet  him  at  his  coming !  Were  not  heart 
bands  drawn  closer  that  evening  ?  Yes,  yes  1 

And  so  with  them  the  seasons  passed.  If  trials 
came,  as  come  they  will  to  all,  they  bore  the  burden 
cheerfully ;  if  clouds  obscured  the  light  around 


THE    TWO    HOMES.  29 


them,  they  drew  closer  to  the  hearth  fire  that  never 
burned  low.  From  such  a  home  the  children  are 
never  driven  out  into  the  world  unarmed  to  meet 
temptation.  When  they  do  leave  the  sheltering 
roof,  it  is  to  make  new  homes  that  will  be  nurseries 
for  heaven. 

Many,  many  such  homes  there  are,  and  yearly  their 
number  is  increasing.  Reader,  is  it  in  your  power, 
through  self-renunciation,  to  make  one  more  such 
home  in  the  land  ?  If  so,  be  true  to  yourself,  true 
to  your  beloved  ones,  true  to  tile  world,  and  re- 
arrange the  moral  elements  of  your  heart  as  a  begin- 
ning to  the  good  work.  But  if  you  make  the  effort, 
forget  not  that  while  all  that  is  done  should  be  done 
as  if  the  power  were  in  yourself,  there  must  be  a 
clear  acknowledgment  that  strength  to  do  good 
comes  from  on  high.  The  work  of  self-repression  is 
always  a  difficult  work  in  the  beginning,  but  reward 
is  never  delayed.  Is  your  home  shadowed  at  times  ? 
Sweep  your  hand  among  the  clouds  above,  and  there 
will  come  down  sunshine  through  the  rifts. 


30  VIEWS    OF   LIFE. 


VIEWS    OF   LIFE. 


YOUNG  deemed  this  life  a  dreary  vale, 
Through  which  forever  glide, 

Murmuring  to  sighs  of  woe,  deep  streams, 
By  bitter  tears  supplied. 

To  Moore  life  seemed  a  rich  parterre, 
Adorned  with  fragrant  flowers, 

Where  cheering  sights  and  tuneful  sounds 
With  pleasure  winged  the  hours. 

"  Life  is  a  jest,"  was  said  by  one 

Renowned  for  gayety ; 
While  others  take  a  different  view 

From  either  of  the  three. 

To  me  life  seems  compounded  well 

Of  sunshine  and  of  shade, 
And  earth  a  place  where  joy  and  grief 

With  even  scales  are  weighed. 

One  hour  around  the  festive  cup 
We  dance  and  laugh  in  glee ; 


MY   LOST    YOUTH.  31 

' 


The  next,  prostrate  upon  the  couch, 
We  writhe  in  agony. 

At  morn  Hope  gives  us  wings  to  soar 

Above  consuming  care ; 
Our  pinions  flag  at  noon  ;  at  night 

We  shudder  with  despair. 

To-day  we  meet  the  friends  we  love, 
And  rapture  fills  the  heart ; 

To-morrow  anguish  wrings  the  breast  - 
For  we  are  forced  to  part. 

Thus,  'mid  life's  ills,  I  ne'er  expect 

Pure  happiness  to  gain ; 
Nor  while  its  blessings  I  partake, 

Of  mingled  woes  complain. 


MY   LOST   YOUTH. 


**** 

(j  (JO 

OFTEN  I  think  of  the  beautiful  town 

That  is  seated  by  the  sea  ; 
Often  in  thought  go  up  and  down 
The  pleasant  streets  of  that  dear  old  town, 

And  my  youth  comes  back  to  me. 


32  MY    LOST    YOUTH. 


And  a  verse  of  a  Lapland  song 
Is  haunting  my  memory  still  — 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  shadowy  lines  of  its  trees, 

And  catch,  in  sudden  gleams, 
The  sheen  of  far  surrounding  sea>, 
And  islands  that  were  the  Hesperides 
Of  all  my  boyish  dreams. 

And  the  burden  of  that  old  song, 
It  murmurs  and  whispers  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea  tides  tossing  free, 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still, 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  bulwarks  by  the  shore, 

And  the  fort  upon  the  hill, 
The  sunrise  gun,  with  its  hollow  roar, 
The  drum-beat  repeated  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  the  bugle  wild  and  shrill. 


MY    LOST    YOUTH.  33 


And  the  music  of  that  old  song 
Throbs  in  my  memory  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  sea  fight  far  away, 
How  it  thundered  over  the  tide, 
And  the  dead  captains  as  they  lay 
In  their  graves  o'erlooking  the  tranquil  bay, 
Where  they  in  battle  died. 

And  the  sound  of  that  mournful  song 
Goes  through  me  with  a  thrill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  can  see  the  breezy  dome  of  groves, 
The  shadows  of  Deering's  Woods ; 
And  the  friendships  old  and  the  early  loves 
Come  back  with  a  Sabbath  sound,  as  of  doves 
In  quiet  neighborhoods. 

And  the  verse  of  that  sweet  old  song 
It  flutters  and  murmurs  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

I  remember  the  gleams  and  glooms  that  dart 

Across  the  schoolboy's  brain, 
The  song  and  the  silence  in  the  heart, 
That  in  part  are  prophecies,  and  in  part 

Are  longings  wild  and  vain. 


34  MY    LOST    YOUTH. 


And  the  voice  of  that  fitful  song 
Sings  on  and  is  never  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  .long,  long  thoughts." 

There  are  things  of  which  I  may  not  speak  ; 

There  are  dreams  that  cannot  die ; 
There  are  thoughts  that  make  the  strong  heart  weak, 
And  bring  a  pallor  into  the  cheek, 
And  a  mist  before  the  eye. 

And  the  words  of  that  fatal  song, 
Come  over  me  like  a  chill : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

Strange  to  me  now  are  the  forms  I  meet, 

When  I  visit  the  dear  old  town  ; 
But  the  native  air  is  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  trees  that  o'ershadow  the  well-known  street, 
As  they  balance  up  and  down, 
Are  singing  the  beautiful  song, 
And  sighing  and  whispering  still, 
"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

And  Deering's  "Woods  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  with  joy  that  is  almost  pain 
My  heart  goes  back  to  wander  there, 
And  among  the  dreams  of  the  days  that  were 

I  find  my  lost  youth  again. 


A   FRIEND.  35 


And  the  strange  and  beautiful  song, 
The  groves  are  repeating  it  still : 
"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 


A   FRIEND, 


How  many  lovely  things  we  find 
In  earth,  and  air,  and  sea  !  — 

The  distant  bells  upon  the  wind, 
The  blossom  on  the  tree  ; 

But  lovelier  far  than  chirne  or  flower, 

A  valued  friend  in  sorrow's  hour. 

Sweet  is  the  carol  of  a  bird, 
When  warbling  on  the  spray, 

And  beautiful  the  moon's  pale  beam 
That  lights  us  on  our  way  ; 

Yet  lovelier  friendship's  look  and  word 

Than  moonlight,  or  than  warbling  bird. 

How  prized  the  coral  and  the  shell, 
And  valued,  too,  the  pearl ! 

Who  can  the  hidden  treasures  tell 
O'er  which  the  soft  waves  curl? 

Yet  dearer  still  a  friend  to  me 

Than  all  in  earth,  or  air,  or  sea. 


36  GOOD    NATUKE. 


GOOD    NATURE. 

— « — 

MEN  are  disposed  to  view  sobriety  as  a  necessary 
ingredient  of  religion,  and  to  regard  mirthful  ness  as 
needless,  or  at  least  to  be  sparingly  indulged  in.  It 
is  thus  compelled  to  be  a  vagabond  —  a  companion 
of  idleness  —  begging  its  bread  from  door  to  door. 
It  must  not  sit  with  scholars,  lest  its  quips  should 
disconcert  their  teachers ;  it  must  not  be  found  in 
the  counting-room ;  it  must  not  do  military  duty. 
The  judges  of  the  bench  regard  it  as  an  intruder, 
and  drive  it  down  among  the  lawyers.  Its  appear- 
ance at  church  shocks  devotion,  and  awakens  whole 
drowsy  rows  to  indignation.  Driven  from  all  places, 
it  is  obliged  to  consort  with  men  who  will  take  it, 
and  it  repays  them. 

Refined  or  intellectual  wit  is  the  combination  of 
mirthfulness  with  the  reflective  faculties  of  the  in- 
tellect. Mirthfulness  also  unites  with  combativeness, 
and  sometimes  displays  itself  even  in  the  sneering, 
biting  sarcasm.  It  becomes  dry  wit,  akin  to  sobri- 

(o)  = 


GOOD    NATURE.  37 


ety,  peeping  at  you  around  a  corner,  and  won't  come 
out.  Humor  has  been  defined  as  suppressed  wit, 
but  rather  should  be  regarded  as  suppressed  wit 
striking  through.  It  was  an  exudation  which  gems 
the  sides  of  thought,  as  in  summer  the  sides  of  water 
vases  are  gemmed  with  drops  of  water. 

Cheerfulness  is  the  manifestation  of  hope,  and 
constitutes  the  sunshine  of  virtue.  For  virtue  re- 
quires the  sun  as  much  as  do  the  flowers.  Mirthful- 
ness,  raised  into  the  catalogue  of  moral  feelings, 
becomes  a  handmaiden  of  Love,  and  love  is  the  cen- 
tral idea  of  religion :  Veneration  is  not  fit  to  go 
alone  ;  it  is  dim  and  downcast.  It  should  always 
walk,  leaning  upon  the  two  angels  of  Hope  and 
Love. 

Care  is  a  human  demon ;  it  is  like  a  dried,  wrinkled 
apparition  in  the  house  of  fear.  Sorrows  are  noble 
and  ennobling,  but  care  is  an  evil  hag.  It  has  neither 
faith,  nor  hope,  nor  love.  It  touches  the  path  of 
misfortune  with  blight,  and  rests  upon  the  sensitive 
soul  like  mildew  upon  flowers.  It  curses  poverty 

with  weariness,  and  it  stands  forth  mildewed  and 

7 

blasted.  Sorrow  hath  slain  its  thousands,  and  care 
its  tens  of  thousands.  It  is  the  rust  that  has  tar- 
nished and  eaten  the  blade. 

A  man  should  be  something  else  than  a  chisel,  and 


38  GOOD    NATURE. 


even  were  he  only  a  cutting  instrument  he  might 
cut  better  if  he  were  to  indulge  in  a  more  generous 
mental  diet.  Our  people  have  no  time  to  cultivate 
the  flowers  of  sensibility.  They  pull  up  all  the 
weeds,  and  every  thing  else.  If  we  cultivate  buoy- 
ancy and  cheerfulness,  it  does  not  need  that  we 
should  also  adopt  buffoonery,  allow  quips  and  quirks 
to  usurp  the  place  of  vigilance  and  industry.  Mirth- 
fulness  will  be  found  to  be  a  good  investment,  or.  in 
plain  terms,  it  would  pay. 

It  is  no  valid  objection  to  mirthfulness,  that  it  has 
been  found  with  the  vicious.  There  is  no  part  of 
man  God  took  the  trouble  to  put  into  him  in  order 
to  make  man  take  the  trouble  to  put  it  out.  The 
same  musical  tones  which  soothed  Cleopatra  in  her 
barge  were  employed  by  the  bard  of  Israel  in  sing- 
ing praises  to  God. 

Mirthfulness  is  said  to  be  the  devil's  weapon  ;  but 
it  has  exorcised  the  devil  a  hundred  times  where  he 
has  made  use  of  it  once. 

God's  angels  hardly  find  the  way  to  the  doors  of 
men  through  the  clouds  of  anxiety  with  which  they 
have  surrounded  themselves,  and  so  they  lose  many 
visits ;  but  they  love  to  come  to  the  homes  of  mirth, 
and  coming  often  they  bear  the  heavier  loads. 

The  sobriety  of  holy  writ  was  not  the  keeping 


@ = 

GOOD    NATURE.  39 

of  the  tongue  in  a  minor  key ;  it  was  a  sobriety 
against  revels  —  revels  of  wine  —  a  temperate  so- 
briety. If  mirthfulness  will  destroy  the  monkish 
sobriety  of  the  present  day,  then  throw  wide  open 
the  doors  of  the  soul,  and  drive  sobriety  to  the 
coverts  of  despair.  The  surest  road  to  levity  is 
unwise  parental  checks.  Happiness  is  wholesome 
and  medicinal,  and  children  reared  to  mirthfulness 
are  less  liable  to  temptation.  A  faculty  shut  up  is 
like  a  closed  room  ;  it  grows  mildewed  and  mias- 
matic. It  is  one  of  the  avocations  of  mirthfulness 
to  keep  the  soul  open  to  God's  sunlight.  There  is 
danger  in  all  methods,  but  there  is  nothing  so  good 
for  the  young  as  cheerful  occupation,  and  the  utmost 
liberty  possible.  All  wrongs  are  to  be  checked,  yet 
even  these  restraints  of  wrong  should  be  restrained. 
Life  and  buoyancy  are  less  dangerous  when  not  con- 
fined among  bones  and  sepulchral  dust, 


40  TO   AN   ABSENT   HUSBAND. 


TO    AN    ABSENT   HUSBAND. 


"  No  place  for  you  in  this  wide  world ! " 
Ah,  say  not  thus,  my  dear  ; 

There  is  one  place  which  you  can  fill, 
One  niche  in  this  wide  sphere. 

Here  is  a  chain,  of  which  you  make 
One  bright,  connecting  link  ; 

No  adverse  fortune  e'er  can  break 
That  golden  chain,  I  think. 

Tis  something  that  a  human  soul 
Has  found  its  counterpart, 

And  something  that  a  kindred  mind 
Can  share  a  genial  heart. 

"Tis  something  that  the  hand  of  love 
Is  thrown  around  us  here, 

Emblem  of  unity  above, 

And  bliss  in  yon  bright  sphere. 

'Tis  southing,  when  death  lays  us  low, 
That  we  can  part  in  peace, 

©= - = 


@ 

FIRST    LOYE.  41 


That  we  have  shared  each  other's  woe, 
Each  other's  joy  increased. 

'Tis  something  when  in  realms  above 

We  shall  again  unite, 
To  share  for  aye  this  mutual  love, 

Where  sin  can  no  more  blight. 

Then  say  not,  "  In  this  wide,  wide  world 

There  is  no  place  for  me  : " 
We're  only  in  a  nursery  here  ; 

Transplanting  forms  the  tree. 


FIRST   LOVE. 


FEW  hearts  have  never  loved  ;  but  fewer  still 

Have  felt  a  second  passion ;  none  a  third  : 
The  first  was  living  fire  ;  the  ne$t  a  thrill ; 

The  weary  heart  can  never  more  be  stirred ; 
Rely  on  it,  the  song  has  left  the  bird. 

All's  for  the  best.     The  fever  and  the  flame, 
The  pulse  that  was  a  pang,  the  glance,  a  word, 

The  tone  that  shot  like  lightning  through  the  frame, 
Can  shatter  us  no  more  —  the  rest  is  but  a  name. 


©==  =© 

42  GOOD   MANNERS. 


GOOD    MANNERS. 


FEW  persons  in  these  days  are  so  cynical  as  to 
maintain  that  manners  are  of  no  consequence. 
Though  they  are  but  the  external  surface  .of  charac- 
ter, and  therefore  not  of  the  vital  importance  which 
belongs  to  the  inner  heart  and  root  of  it,  still  it 
would  be  absurd  to  deny  that  the  qualities  of  that 
surface  do  not  contribute  very  much  to  the  happi- 
ness both  of  the  individual  and  of  society.  The  gar- 
dener's labor  is  not  spent  in  vain  when  he  cherishes 
into  bloom  merely  the  brilliant  tinted  flower.  The 
wise  cultivator  of  the  human  plant,  however,  will 
bear  in  mind  the  analogy  of  nature,  and  will  not 
think  he  can  produce  that  beauty  by  painting  the 
surface.  If  art  can  add  a  tint  to  the  flower,  it  must 
be  by  laying  no  pigment  on  the  petal,  but  by  infus- 
ing a  new  chemical  element  into  the  soil,  which 
must,  by  ascending  the  stem,  be  elaborated  in  its 
secret  glands.  And  so,  to  cultivate  manners  that 
will  be  really  attractive,  we  must  labor  from  the 


GOOD    MANNERS.  43 


heart  and  soul  of  man  outward,  and  they  in  their 
turn  will  react  upon  the  heart,  and  aid  the  growth 
and  development  of  virtuous  character,  as  those 
flowers  whose  leaves,  with  their  polished  surfaces, 
imbibe  the  sun  and  air,  give  back  nourishment  to 
root  and  stem. 

Good  manners  should  be  cultivated,  because,  first, 
they  are  good  ;  they  are  beautiful,  suitable,  proper  ; 
they  gratify  the  artistic  perception  in  ourselves ; 
and  a  refined  mind  would  prompt  to  elegant  action 
in  a  solitary  wilderness.  In  the  second  place,  be- 
cause they  are  agreeable  to  others,  and  to  give 
pleasure  is  no  mean  branch  of  benevolence. 

Let  children  be  taught  and  trained  to  sit  quietly, 
to  talk  gently,  to  eat  with  nicety,  to  salute  grace- 
fully, to  help  another  before  themselves,  because  it 
is  proper,  it  is  kind,  it  is  becoming  to  do  so. 

Politeness,  which  Dr.  Johnson  describes  to  be 
"  the  never  giving  any  preference  to  one's  self,"  fre- 
quently, we  know,  lies  all  upon  the  surface  ;  still 
this  is  better  than  the  absence  of  it ;  for,  as  we  have 
already  intimated,  the  habitual  regard  to  obser- 
vances which  are  prescribed  upon  the  principles  of 
benevolence,  which  is  at  the  root  of  all  politeness 
and  good  manners,  will  lead  by  degrees  to  the  love 
and  practice  of  benevolence  itself.  And  when  it  is 


44          MILLY    GREY,    OR    APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE. 

considered  how  contagious  are  all  the  feelings  of 
our  nature,  whether  good  or  evil ;  how  the  frown 
will  excite  an  answering  frown,  as  smiles  will  kindle 
smiles  ;  how  the  rude  jest  will  provoke  the  insulting 
reply  ;  how  he  that  always  takes  care  of  number 
one  will  find  himself  jostled  by  a  host  of  equally 
independent  unities,  whose  bristles  are  roused  in 
emulation  of  his  own,  —  it  is  evident  that  the  well 
being  of  society  is  affected  in  no  slight  degree  by 
the  regard  which  is  paid  to  the  outward  decencies 
and  amenities  of  life.  Manners  (mores)  may  not  now 
mean  morals,  but  they  are  the  best  possible  sub- 
stitute. 


MILLY    GREY;  OR,  APPEARANCES    DECEP- 
TIVE. 


"  O,  ever  let  the  aged  be 
As  sacred  angels  unto  thee." 

"  HA,  ha,  ha !  "  cried  gay  Bell  Grosvenor,  "  see 
yonder  country  gawky  ;  as  I  live  he  is  beckoning 
the  coachman.  Now,  if  he  gets  in  there'll  be  fun, 
for  I  do  love  to  plague  these  green  ones.  Why, 

®— •-  ---  — '•- 


MILLY    GREY,    OR   APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE.         45 

Milly,  how  you  open  your  great  blue  eyes !  You  ain't 
frightened,  are  you  ?  Look  at  her,  Annie  ;  ha,  ha, 
ha  !  just  look  at  her." 

"  But  you  are  not  in  earnest,  Bell  ?  "  said  Milly, 
timidly  shrinking  back  into  her  seat ;  "  you  would 
not  be  so  impolite,  so " 

"  Our  politeness  is  reserved  for  the  city,  dear," 
broke  in  Annie  ;  "  we  consider  such  fellows  as  that 
nobodies  ;  and  if  they  don't  want  to  be  laughed  at, 
why,  they  must  take  an  outside  place  with  the  coach- 
man ;  that's  all." 

"  Then  you  won't  catch  me  sitting  on  the  same 
seat  with  you,"  exclaimed  Milly,  with  a  look  of 
alarm,  springing  away  from  her  cousin  and  en- 
sconcing herself  in  a  seat  opposite. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  cried  Bell,  with  a  merry 
laugh ;  "  we  can  have  a  good  time  with  both 

of Hush!  here  he  comes.  0  Annie,  what  a 

fright !  " 

The  young  man  unbuttoned  the  coach  door  him- 
self, for  the  horses  were  going  up  hill,  and  springing 
up  the  steps  rather  awkwardly,  on  account  of  a 
large  portmanteau  he  had,  seated  himself  on  a  seat 
near  Milly.  Bell  and  Annie  exchanged  looks  and 
bit  their  lips. 

Milly  hugged  the  back  of  the  coach,  blushing 

@-  ==- 


46          MILLY    GREY,    OR    APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE. 

crimson  with  shame  for  her  cousins  ;  and  the  coun- 
try greeny,  who  wore  a  very  much  soiled  coat  and 
shocking  cap,  over  which  a  light,  thin  handkerchief 
was  thrown  and  fastened  under  his  chin,  looked  up 
at  them  demurely.  Once  he  could  not  but  notice 
that  the  object  of  their  mirth  was  himself,  he  sud- 
denly put  his  hand  on  his  throat  as  if  to  unite  his 
uncouth  cap  string,  —  that  is,  the  ends  of  the  hand- 
kerchief,—  but  pausing  he  seemed  to  change  his 
mind,  and  let  them  alone. 

"  Won't  you  have  my  vinaigrette,  Milly  dear  ? " 
said  Bell,  with  an  arch  smile,  and  a  side  glance  at 
the  stranger. 

"  You  do  look  pale,"  chimed  in  Annie,  tossing  back 
her  thick  curls ;  and  restraining  herself  no  longer, 
she  Jpurst  into  a  rude  laugh,  for  the  poor  girl's 
cheeks  were  distressingly  flushed. 

"  Take  my  fan,  coz,"  exclaimed  Bell,  proffering  it ; 
"  the  air  in  this  coach  is  really  overpowering  ;  "  and 
she  placed  her  delicate  pocket  handkerchief  to  her 
face. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Milly,  with  as  much  dignity 
as  she  could  assume,  while  her  lips  trembled,  "  I  do 
not  need  it." 

"  She  certainly  is  faint,  Annie,"  said  Bell,  in  a 
low  tone ;  "  come,  Milly,  you  had  better  sit  between 


MILLY    GREY,  OR   APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE.          47 

us  where  we  can  support  you  ;  you  haven't  quite  room 
enough  on  that  side." 

The  thoughtless  girl  started,  for  a  blazing  black 
eye  flashed  upon  her  ;  it  was  only  a  second,  though, 
that  quick,  piercing  glance,  with  the  fire  of  fifty  out- 
raged dignities  concentrated  within  it. 

"  If  you  please,  cousin  Bell,"  said  Milly,  with  more 
spirit  than  they  dreamed  she  possessed,  "  don't  annoy 
me  any  more  ;  I  am  better  pleased  with  my  seat  than 
your  rudeness  ; "  and  the  pretty  lip  trembled  again, 
and  the  pretty  face  looked  as  if  it  was  going  to  cry. 

The  young  man  turned  quickly  ;  the  hard  expres- 
sion that  had  gathered  around  his  mouth  melted 
into  something  akin  to  a  pleasant  smile,  while  the 
two  rebuked  cousins  were  very  angry,  one  might 
have  seen. 

There  was  no  more  comment  until  the  coach 
stopped  again,  this  time  to  take  up  a  fat  old  lady 
with  a  well-worn  bonnet,  loaded  down  with  innu- 
merable bandboxes  and  bundles,  most  of  which  she 
insisted  on  carrying  into  the  coach  with  her.  Here 
was  plenty  of  material  for  the  merriment  of  the 
thoughtless  sisters.  Bell  declared  that  the  band- 
boxes must  have  once  contained  old  Mrs.  Noah's 
best  bonnet ;  and  Annio  persisted  that  if  so,  that 
identical  bonnet  must  now  be  before  them. 

(2)  < 


48         MILLT   GRET,   OB   APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE. 

No  sooner  was  the  coach  door  opened  than  out 
sprang  the  stranger,  and  taking  sundry  things  from 
the  old  lady,  deposited  them  carefully  in  the  inside, 
all  but  one,  about  which  she  seemed  very  choice ; 
but  just  as  she  performed  the  laborious  feat  of  step- 
ping within  the  door,  down  rolled  the  paper  with 
a  crash ;  something  was  destroyed,  and  Bell  and 
Annie,  enjoying  her  real  distress  at  the  accident, 
burst  into  another  impertinent  laugh. 

The  old  lady  could  not  avoid  looking  towards 
them,  and  as  her  hair  was  a  little  awry,  and  her 
spectacles  crooked,  she  presented  a  sight  appearing 
to  them  so  ludicrous  that  they  had  their  faces  almost 
convulsed  with  laughter. 

"  Are  these  your  sisters,  sir  ?  "  she  asked  mildly, 
turning  to  the  gentleman. 

"  I  hope  not,  madam,"  he  answered,  in  low,  meas- 
ured tones  ;  "  my  sisters  respect  age  ;  to  them  gray 
hairs  are  too  sacred  for  trifling."  He  did  not  wince 
in  the  least  under  the  angry  glance  of  the  mortified 
girls,  now  completely  silenced  ;  but  Milly  had  thrown 
her  thick  veil  down,  and  was  weeping  all  "to  her- 
self. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  house  of  Dr.  James ;  do  you 
know  him,  sir  ? "  asked  the  old  lady,  after  a  few 
moments  of  silence. 

—  .       (o) 


MILLY    GREY,  OR    APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE.         49 

"  I  should,  madam,  for  he  is  my  father,"  said  the 
stranger,  with  a  smile. 

The  flushed  cheeks  of  Bell  grew  instantly  pale, 
and  her  eyes  met  those  of  her  companion,  on  whose 
face  a  similar  reaction  had  taken  place. 

"  My  son,  Professor  L ,  lectures  in  Taunton 

to-night,  and  as  I  have  seldom  the  pleasure  of  listen- 
ing to  him,  he  is  so  often  away,  I  thought  I  would 
make  an  effort  to  visit  your  house.  I  am  glad  he  is 
your  father,  young  man  ;  you  do  him  honor,"  she  con- 
tinued, with  a  gratified  look;  "you  have  his  eyes 
and  his  forehead  —  I  should  know  them."  The 
stranger  had  lifted  his  cap,  taken  off  his  handker- 
chief, and  was  wiping  the  moisture  from  a  magnifi- 
cent brow,  above  which  the  jet  black  curls  hung 
thick  and  silkily.  "  I  shall  have  also  the  pleasure 
of  meeting  a  son  at  your  house,  and  acquainting  him 
with  your  politeness  towards  a  strange  old  woman, 
who  was  the  subject  of  some  not  very  flattering 
remarks." 

She  did  not  glance  this  time  towards  the  young 
ladies  ;  if  she  had  she  would  have  pitied  them ;  they 
sat  cowering  down  completely  crestfallen.  It  was, 
indeed,  an  unenviable  situation  in  which  they  had 
placed  themselves.  They,  too,  were  going  for  the  ex- 
press purpose  of  hearing  Professor  L ,  one  of  the 


50         MILLT    GREY,  OK   APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE. 

most  brilliant  lecturers  of  the  day,  and  who  had 
almost  been  bewitched  by  the  sparkling  beauty  of 
Bell  Grosvenor  when  a  guest  at  her  father's  in  the 
city  ;  so  much  so  that  he  had  been  heard  to  declare 
he  knew  not  another  woman  who  appeared  to  pos- 
sess so  many  desirable  qualities  for  a  wife.  And 
strangely  enough,  they  were  going  to  the  very  house 
of  the  man  they  had  so  grossly  insulted  ;  for  they 
never  could  have  dreamed  the  gawky  to  be  the  only 
son  of  their  mother's  friend,  the  rich  and  influential 
Dr.  James.  They  knew  indeed  that  he  had  been  for 
some  time  expected  home  from  his  tour  in  Europe, 
but  his  travel-stained  attire  and  his  silence  com- 
pletely deceived  them. 

Meantime  Milly  recovered  a  little  from  her  trou- 
ble :  the  envious  veil  was  thrown  back,  the  two 
pouting  lips  restored  to  their  equanimity  ;  the  glad, 
merry  eyes,  all  the  brighter  for  the  little  wash  of 
tears,  rested  or  rather  danced  over  the  beautiful 
prospects  of  fields,  and  trees,  and  rose-lined  paths ; 
she,  innocent  heart,  had  nothing  to  reproach  herself 
with,  and  gladly  would  her  cousins  have  changed 
places  with  her. 

They  sat  very  silent,  trembling,  and  almost  faint- 
ing, till  the  stage  drew  near  the  broad  entrance  into 
the  doctor's  grounds.  They  were  still  undecided, 
—  — (o) 


CQ)=  ==•&. 

MILLY    GREY,  OR   APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE.          51 

when  the  coachman  said,  "  The  young  ladies  are  to 
stop  here,  I  believe,"  and  unstrapped  the  trunks  from 
the  huge  tongue. 

Henry  James,  after  a  moment's  embarrassment, 
stepping  back  to  the  door,  arid  with  a  bright  smile 
at  Milly,  said,  as  if  nothing  had  transpired.  "  Will 
you  allow  me  to  assist  you  out,  young  ladies  ? " 
How  daintily  he  conducted  Milly  to  the  ground  !  But 
as  the  others  descended  there  was  a  chilling  reserve 
in  his  manner,  and  a  painful  confusion  in  theirs,  that 
told  how  indelible  would  be  the  recollection  of  that 
unfortunate  meeting. 

Bell  Grosvenor  and  her  sister  returned  the  next 

day  ;  they  could  not  endure  to  meet  Professor  L 

in  the  presence  of  his  mother.  But  they  have 
learned  a  lesson  which  they  will  probably  treasure 
for  life — not  to  judge  by  externals,  and  to  treat 
old  age,  even  in  rags,  with  a  reverence  as  holy  as 
though  it  moved  about  in  golden  slippers. 


"  But  I  am  a  portionless  orphan,  Henry." 
"  But  you  are  the  same  Milly  Grey  that  sat  in  the 
back  seat  of  the  old  stage,  and  nobly  resisted  the 
influence  of  wealth  and  fashion  when  those  rude, 
proud  girls  would  have  laughed  down  the  uncouth 
countryman.  From  that  moment  I  loved  you,  and 


52          MILLT    GREY,  OR   APPEARANCES    DECEPTIVE. 

still  more  when  I  perceived  your  delicate  attention 
to  my  father's  friend.  Believe  me,  Milly,  no  true 
man  would  trust  his  happiness  with  one  who  would 
insult  gray  hairs  ;  there  is  little  heart  in  such  a  one, 
however  faultless  the  exterior ;  and  I  have  such 
extreme  reverence  for  the  aged,  that  a  loathing,  im- 
possible for  me  to  express,  came  over  me  when  I 
witnessed  the  behavior  of  your  cousins.  They  may 
be  wealthy,  highly  educated,  fascinating,  but  I  would 
no  more  wed  one  of  them  than  I  would  play  with  a 
rattlesnake.  There,  —  God  bless  you,  Milly,  —  look 
up,  love,  and  let  me  tell  you  that  in  my  eyes  you  are 
worth  millions,  nay,  more  than  all  the  world." 


Bell  and  Annie  Grosvenor  are  both  wedded,  but 

neither  of  them  has  Professor  L or  Dr.  James 

for  a  husband.  They  are,  however,  very  gay  and 
fashionable,  if  that  is  any  compensation.  But  Milly, 
sweet  Milly,  lives  in  a  beautiful  villa  in  a  country 
town,  as  happy  and  devoted  a  wife  and  mother  as 
can  be  found  in  the  wide,  wide  world. 


KIND    FRIENDS    AT    HOME.  53 


KIND    FRIENDS    AT    HOME. 


O,  THERE'S  a  power  to  make  each  hour 
As  sweet  as  heaven  designed  it ; 

Nor  need  we  roam  to  bring  it  home, 
Though  few  there  be  that  find  it. 

We  seek  too  high  for  things  close  by, 
And  lose  what  nature  found  us  ; 

For  life  hath  here  no  charms  so  dear 
•  As  home  and  friends  around  us. 

We  oft  destroy  our  present  joy  — 

For  future  hopes  —  and  praise  them  ; 
Whilst  flowers  as  sweet  bloom  at  our  feet, 

If  we'd  but  stoop  to  raise  them. 
For  things  afar  still  sweeter  are, 

When  youth,  bright  spell,  hath  bound  us ; 
But  soon  we're  taught  that  earth  hath  nought 

Like  home  and  friends  around  us. 

The  friends  that  speed  in  time  of  need, 
When  hope's  last  reed  is  shaken, 

To  show  us  still,  that,  come  what  will, 
We  are  not  quite  forsaken ; 


54  MY    MOTHER. 


Though  all  were  night,  if  but  the  light 
From  Friendship's  altar  crowned  us, 

'Twould  prove  the  bliss  of  earth  was  thu  — 
Of  home  and  friends  around  us. 


MY   MOTHER, 


MY  mother's  voice  !     How  often  creeps 

Its  cadence  on  my  lonely  hours, 
Like  healing  on  the  wings  of  sleep, 

Or  dew  on  the  unconscious  flowers ! 
I  might  forget  her  melting  prayer, 

While  wildering  leisures  madly  fly  ; 
But  in  the  still,  unbroken  air, 

Her  gentle  tones  come  stealing  by, 
And  years  of  sin  and  manhood  flee, 

And  leave  me  at  my  mother's  knee. 

I  have  been  out  at  eventide, 

Beneath  a  moonlit  sky  of  spring, 
When  earth  was  garnished  like  a  bride, 

And  night  had  on  her  silver  wing ; 
When  bursting  buds  and  dewy  grass, 

And  waters  leaping  to  the  light, 
And  all  that  makes  the  pulses  pass 

With  wilder  fleetness  thronged  the  night : 


THE    FAULTS    OF   MAN.  55 

When  all  was  beauty,  then  have  I 

With  friends  on  whom  my  love  is  flung, 

Like  myrrh  on  winds  of  Araby, 

Gazed  on  where  evening's  lamp  is  hung. 

And  when  the  beauteous  spirit  there 

Flung  over  all  its  golden  chain, 
My  mother's  voice  came  on  the  air, 

Like  the  light  dropping  of  the  rain ; 
And  resting  on  some  silver  star, 

The  spirit  of  a  bended  knee, 
I've  poured  a  deep  and  fervent  prayer 

That  our  eternity  might  be  — 
To  rise  in  heaven,  like  stars  by  night, 

And  tread  a  living  path  of  light. 


THE   FAULTS    OF   MAN, 


A  THOUSAND  faults  in  man  we  find  ; 

Merit  in  him  we  seldom  meet : 
Man's  inconstant  and  unkind  ; 

Man  is  false  and  indiscreet ; 
Man's  capricious,  jealous,  free, 

Vain,  insincere,  and  trifling,  too  ; 
Yet  still  the  women  all  agree, 

For  want  of  better,  he  must  do. 


56  HOW   TO    BE   HAPPY. 


HOW   TO   BE   HAPPY. 

I  WILL  give  you  two  or  three  good  rules  which 
may  help  you  to  become  happier  than  you  would  be 
without  knowing  them  ;  but  as  to  being  completely 
happy,  that  you  can  never  be  till  you  get  to  heaven. 

The  first  is,  "  Try  your  best  to  make  others  happy." 
"  I  never  was  happy,"  said  a  certain  king,  "  till  I 
began  to  take  pleasure  in  the  welfare  of  my  people  ; 
but  ever  since  then,  in  the  darkest  day,  I  have  had 
sunshine  in  my  heart." 

My  second  rule  is,  "Be  content  with  little." 
There  are  many  good  reasons  for  this  rule.  We 
deserve  but  little,  we  require  but  little,  and  "  better 
is  little,  with  the  fear  of  God,  than  great  treasures 
and  trouble  therewith."  Two  men  were  determined 
to  be  rich,  but  they  set  about  it  in  different  ways  ; 
for  the  one  strove  to  raise  up  his  means  to  his  de- 
sires, while  the  other  did  his  best  to  bring  down  his 
desires  to  his  means.  The  result  was,  the  one  who 
coveted  much  was  always  repining,  while  he  who 
desired  but  little  was  always  contented. 

(3) 


o) 

HOW    TO    BE    HAPPY.  57 


My  third  rule  is,  "  Look  on  the  sunny  side   of 

things." 

"  Look  up  with  hopeful  eyes, 

Though  all  things  seem  forlorn  ; 
The  sun  that  sets  to-night  will  rise 
Again  to-morrow  morn." 

The  skipping  lamb,  the  singing  lark,  and  the  leaping 
fish  tell  us  that  happiness  is  not  confined  to  one 
place.  God  in  his  goodness  has  spread  it  abroad 
on  the  earth,  in  the  air,  and  in  the  waters.  Two 
aged  women  lived  in  the  same  cottage ;  one  was 
always  fearing  a  storm,  and  the  other  was  always 
looking  for  sunshine.  Hardly  need  I  say  which  it 
was  wore  a  forbidding  frown,  or  which  it  was  whose 
face  was  lighted  up  with  joy.  Said  a  venerable 
farmer,  some  eighty  years  of  age,  to  a  relative  who 
lately  visited  him,  "  I  have  lived  on  this  farm  for 
over  half  a  century.  I  have  no  desire  to  change  my 
residence  as  long  as  I  live  on  earth.  I  have  no 
desire  to  be  any  richer  than  I  now  am.  I  have 
worshipped  the  God  of  my  fathers  with  the  same 
people  for  more  than  forty  years.  During  that 
period  I  have  rarely  been  absent  from  the  sanctuary 
on  the  Sabbath,  and  have  never  lost  but  one  com- 
munion season.  I  have  never  been  confined  to  my 
bed  by  sickness  a  single  day.  The  blessings  of  God 
(p)-  ^^ 


58  NOT    WORTH    THE    TROUBLE. 

have  been  richly  spread  around  me  ;  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  long  ago  that  if  I  wished  to  be  any  hap- 
pier I  must  have  more  religion." 


NOT   WORTH    THE   TROUBLE. 


"  0,  IT'S  not  worth  the  trouble  to  dress ;  I  see 
only  my  husband."  Then,  madam,  if  your  husband 
is  not  better  worth  pleasing  than  a  host  of  "  com- 
pany," it  is  a  pity  you  are  married.  Not  worth  the 
trouble  to  look  better  to  him  than  his  merest  ac- 
quaintances ?  Not  worth  the  trouble  to  surround 
yourself  with  every  grace  and  fascination  that  you 
are  capable  of?  Then,  if  you  are  a  neglected  wife 
by  and  by,  never  complain,  for  it  is  your  own  fault ; 
it  was  "not  worth  the  trouble"  to  have  a  happy 
home. 


TO    MY    WIFE.  59 


TO    MY    WIFE. 


COME  hither,  dearest  one  of  earth,  come  sit  thee  by  my 

side, 
For  thou  art  e'en  more  lovely  now  than  when  my  blushing 

bride ; 
Departed  years  have  shown  thy  worth,  and  tested  well 

thy  love, 
And  I  have  found  in  thee  a  friend  next  to  my  Friend 

above. 

Sweet,  kindred  soul,  my  own  fond  wife  ! 
A  world  of  bliss  'mid  earthly  strife, 
I  bless  thee,  kindest  Heaven,  for  this,  the  choicest  boon 

of  life. 

The  glow  of  thy  affection  pure,  the  beauty  of  thy  mind, 

Have  round  me  thrown  their  golden  links,  my  willing 
heart  to  bind ; 

They  've  shed  upon  my  path  their  rays  so  sweet,  so  calm, 
so  bright, 

That  they  have  changed  a  darkened  world  to  one  of  hal- 
lowed light : 

Of  earth  thou  art  my  Eden  fair, 
The  sharer  of  my  joy  and  care, 

The  blest  companion  of  my  heart,  in  thought,  and  wish, 
and  prayer. 

(o) (8) 


60  TO    MY    WIFE. 


Beloved,  when  I  saw  thee  first,  and  met  thee  as  a  friend, 
And  only  in  acquaintanceship  our  hearts  began  to  blend, 
My  youthful  soul  was  kindled  then,  and  unknown  rap- 
tures felt ; 
Unconsciously  I  breathed   thy  name  while   in   devotion 

knelt ; 

And  every  day,  before  my  eye, 
Came,  like  a  seraph  from  the  sky, 
Thy  lovely  image,  dearest  one,  and  in  my  dreams  'twas  nigh. 

Oft,  arm  in  arm,  with  joyful  steps,  o'er  flowery  fields  we 

trod; 
Oft,  listening  to  the  Sabbath  bell,  we   sought  the  house 

of  God ; 
And  many  a  blissful  hour  flew  by,  when  sitting  side  by 

side ; 
But  happiest  was  the  moment  when  I  took  thee  as  my 

bride : 

O  then,  my  beautiful,  were  given 
Our  pledge  to  each,  our  vows  to  Heaven, 
And  nought  hath  yet,  for  three  bright  years,  our  deep 

affection  riven. 

In  mutual  hope  and  faithful  trust,  and  in  confiding  love, 
Receiving  from  our  Father's  hand  rich  blessings  from 

above, 

Amid  life's  duties,  toils,  and  cares,  along  our  pilgrim  way 
Together  we  have  come  with  joy  increasing  till  to-day ; 
Thou,  like  a  guardian  spirit  fair, 
Hast  sought  my  every  ill  to  share : 

For  thee,  O  precious  boon  of  Heaven,  shall  rise  incessant 
prayer. 


.  @ 

TO    MY    WIFE.  61 


And  on  our  path,  and  in  our  home,  hath  beamed  a  pre- 
cious light, 

Replete  with   new  and  wondrous   charms,  in  hope  and 
promise  bright,  — 

An   angel's   baby  face   and   form,  and   laughing   life   of 
glee, 

A  golden  link  of  love  to  bind  my  heart  more  close  to 

thee  ; 

Amusing,  mirthful,  elfin  girl, 
A  treasure  sweet  —  immortal  pearl ! 

O,  ever  round  our  darling  may  celestial  pinions  furl. 

Our  little  world  of  peaceful  joy,  with  cloudless  sky  serene, 
By  sordid  hearts  and  vulgar  eyes  is  never  known  nor 

seen  ; 
The  sweetest  bliss  can  ne'er  be  found  in  glittering  wealth 

alone, 

Nor  does  it  dwell  in  royal  courts,  nor  on  ambition's  throne  ; 
In  hearts  of  faith  and  love  it  springs, 
And  blesses  those  to  whom  it  clings, 
Sheltered    and    sweetly   shadowed   by   its    soft,   angelic 

wings. 

Thou  loveliest  one  of  all  on  earth,  of  my  own  self  a  part, 
The  choicest  of  celestial  gifts,  and  nearest  to  my  heart, 
O,  never  shall  this  arm  forbear  my  chosen  to  defend, 
And  never  shall  this  heart  grow  cold  till  life's  last  pulse 

shall  end. 

Sweet  star  of  life,  serenely  bright, 
Dispelling  gloom  with  purest  light, 

Can   such   affection  know  decay,  or  die   in   death's  dim 
night  ? 


62  DOUBT. 

The  love  that  bindeth  Christian  hearts  is  not  alone  of 

earth ; 

It  is  an  effluence  from  God,  and  hath  a  heavenly  birth  ; 
Its  spirit  thrills  our  wedded  souls  like  music  tones  divine ; 
Its  holy  fire  of  sympathy  through  all  our  path  shall  shine : 
Then,  in  those  radiant  skies  afar, 
TVhere  nought  can  e'er  its  beauty  mar, 
'Twill  even  beam  in  glory  with  the  Bright  and  Morning 
Star! 


DOUBT. 


DOUBT  when  radiant  smiles  are  shining, 

Doubt  when  clasping  hands  are  twining, 

Doubt  when  honeyed  words  are  flowing, 

Doubt  when  blushes  warm  are  glowing, 

But  never  doubt  that  truth  sincere 

That  glistens  in  a  woman's  tear. 

Doubt  when  mirthful  tones  invite  thee, 
Doubt  when  gayest  hopes  delight  thee, 
Doubt  whate'er  is  fondest,  fairest, 
Doubt  whate'er  is  brightest,  rarest, 
But  O,  believe  that  truth  can  live 
In  hearts  that  suffer  and  forgive. 


SATURDAY   NIGHT    AT    THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD.         63 


SATURDAY    NIGHT    AT    THE    OLD    HOME- 
STEAD. 


IT  is  Saturday  night !  How  welcome  an  hour  to 
the  weary,  sad-hearted  ones  in  this  working-day 
world  of  ours !  How  welcome  a  time  to  the  Chris- 
tian, for  the  rest  day  comes  "  to-morrow  ; "  thrice 
blessed,  because  to-night  he  feels  that  he  must "  pitch 
his  moving  tent "  a  week's  march  "  nearer  home." 
I  am  not  weary  of  life.  0,  no  !  Our  earthly  home  is 
very  happy  ;  no  shadow  from  the  wing  of  the  death 
angel  is  upon  our  hearthstone  ;  the  stern  old  reaper 
has  not  cut  down  one  of  our  gentle  blue-eyed  blos- 
soms :  yet  how  uncertain  is  our  life,  and  how  frail  is 
our  hold  of  earthly  bliss !  And  so,  as  to-night  I 
clasp  my  treasures  to  my  heart,  I  almost  tremble 
at  their  frailty,  and,  as  I  think  of  the  rest  day  to- 
morrow, and  of  that  coming  eternal  Sabbath  of 
which  it  is  an  emblem,  I  thank  God  for  the  home 
here ;  and  0,  emphatically,  I  thank  him  for  the 
bright  home  there.  In  that  blessed  land,  where 

(2)  -  =( 


64        SATURDAY   NIGHT    AT    THE    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 

tears  are  wiped  from  off  all  faces,  may  our  "  lost  be 
found."  With  a  sort  of  mingling  of  these  feelings 
in  my  heart,  I  sat  gazing  somewhat  dreamily  into 
the  fire,  —  for  though  we  are  far  in  June,  the  month 
of  roses,  yet  this  cool  easterly  wind  makes  such  an 
old-fashioned  fire  very  pleasant  and  cozy,  —  when  a 
simple  word  has  touched  the  electric  chain,  and  my 
thoughts  have  assumed  a  more  practical  and  perhaps 
more  profitable  hue.  Our  little  curly-headed  pet 
had  just  repeated  his  simple  prayers. 

"  Lord,  I'm  a  little  child  ; 

Teach  me  how  to  pray ; 
Make  me  gentle,  meek,  and  mild ; 
Take  my  sins  away." 

Then  followed  that  well-known,  "  Now  I  lay  me 
down  to  sleep,"  and,  finally,  the  "  Lord's  Prayer," 
doubly  beautiful  and  impressive  from  the  lisping 
voices  of  children  ;  then,  though  the  blue  eyes  looked 
very  sleepy,  mother  "  must  teach  him  that  Satur- 
day night  hymn."  It  is  a  simple  thing,  familiar  as 
household  words,  yet  somehow  to-night  they  set  me 
thinking. 

"  How  pleasant  is  Saturday  night, 

When  I've  tried  all  the  week  to  be  good, 
Not  spoken  a  word  that  was  bad, 

And  obliged  every  one  that  I  could  ! " 


@ 

SATURDAY   NIGHT   AT   THE    OLD   HOMESTEAD.        65 

The  dear  child  accompanied  every  line  with  the 
strictest  self-examination,  and  his  lips  quivered  and 
tears  filled  his  eyes  when  he  remembered  a  time 
when  he  spoke  a  naughty  word,  when  he  forgot  to 
"  try  to  be  good."  God  give  thee  ever  as  tender  a 
conscience,  blessed  child  ;  and  0  that  in  after  years 
retrospection  may  be  no  more  painful !  But  have 
we  "  tried  to  be  good  "  all  the  past  week  ?  Let  us 
think.  In  our  abundance  have  we  remembered  the 
many  pale,  sad  faces  which  we  might  have  caused  to 
smile  with  gladness  ?  In  the  joys  of  our  happy 
home  circle,  have  our  hearts  once  gone  out  to  some 
lonely,  desolate  one,  who,  perhaps,  beneath  our  own 
roof  sees  the  cordial,  happy  life  going  on  around 
her  —  hears  its  songs  and  laughter  —  but  in  the 
midst  of  this  social,  loving  community  she  is  alone. 
A  kind  word,  an  approving  look,  have  they  been 
given  ?  Lady  fair,  perchance  your  domestic  is  igno- 
rant and  unlovely ;  perhaps  her  speech  betrayeth  her 
to  be  from  the  land  darkened  by  priests  and  despot- 
ism ;  or  perhaps  she  bears  upon  her  brow  the  mark 
of  the  lowly  and  despised  race  ;  but  she  has  a  human 
heart,  and  you  can  do  her  good  ;  you  can  make  her 
life  less  wearisome  ;  you  can  point  her  to  a  glorious 
rest  for  the  weary  in  the  far  future ;  you  can  teach 
her  the  way  to  obtain  it.  Cannot  love  teach  an 

@ 


66    SATURDAY  NIGHT  AT  THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD. 

ignorant  servant  girl  ?  Thank  Heaven,  there  is 
one  who,  though  he  be  high,  "  hath  respect  unto  the 
lowly."  Do  you  know  who  hath  said,  "  Inasmuch 
as  ye  did  it  unto  the  least  of  these,  ye  did  it  unto 
me"? 

Ilave  we  been  gentle,  and  forgiving,  and  patient  ? 
Have  we  gone  often  to  our  closets  in  communion 
with  God  and  our  Savior  ?  Alas,  alas !  how  many 
of  us  have  "  tried  all  the  week  to  be  good  "  ?  Have 
we  spoken  an  impatient  word  to  the  beloved  about 
our  hearthstone  ?  Have  we  grieved  a  loving  heart 
by  an  ungentle,  hasty  retort?  Have  we  spoken 
lightly  or  unkindly  of  an  absent  one,  or,  by  listen- 
ing, encouraged  a  slandering  word  ?  Have  we 
spoken  gently  to  our  erring  sister  woman  ?  She 
has  sinned,  and  suffered,  and  repented,  perhaps,  but 
the  light  and  joy  of  her  youth  have  gone  out  for- 
ever, with  the  loss  of  her  innocence.  Why  should 
we  —  sinful,  erring  mortals  ourselves  —  why  should 
we  deepen  the  misery  of  one  erring  human  heart,  by  a 
haughty  look  or  unfeeling  word  ?  Perhaps  she  has 
been  more  "  sinned  against  than  sinning,"  and  a  kind 
word  might  have  touched  that  heart  not  yet  hard- 
ened in  the  ways  of  sin,  might  have  allured  her  back 
to  the  paths  of  pleasantness  and  peace.  Ah,  my 
sister,  in  that  day  yet  to  come,  shall  we  know  what 


MY   SOUL   IS    SAD.  67 


might  have  been  -the  result  of  a  word  that  remained 
unspoken.     Might  have  been !     Ah  me  ! 

"  Of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The  saddest  are  these,  '  It  might  have  been.' " 


MY   SOUL   IS    SAD. 


MY  soul  is  sad,  for  days  of  yore 

Come  thronging  on  my  brain, 
And  memories  of  "  lang  syne  "  to  me 

Are  memories  of  pain  ; 
Such  tearful  shadows  of  the  past 

Come  o'er  my  aching  eye, 
I  close  my  weary  lids,  and  bid 

The  vision  to  pass  by. 

My  soul  is  sad,  for  sun-bright  hours 

That  scarcely  knew  a  shade  ; 
Life's  colors  looked  so  fair  to  me 

It  seemed  they  would  not  fade. 
Pass  on  !  bright  visions  of  the  past, 

Ye  only  give  me  pain  ; 
Those  happy  days,  too  bright  to  last, 

Will  never  come  ajrain. 


68  THE   OLD   PLAT-GROUND. 


THE   OLD    PLAY-GROUND. 


I  SAT  an  hour  to-day,  John, 

Beside  the  old  brook  stream, 
Where  we  were  schoolboys  in  old  time, 

When  manhood  was  a  dream  ; 
The  brook  is  choked  with  fallen  leaves, 

The  pond  is  dried  away  ; 
I  scarce  believe  that  you  would  know 

The  dear  old  place  to-day. 

The  schoolhouse  is  no  more,  John, 

Beneath  our  locust  trees  ; 
The  wild  rose  by  the  window  side 

No  more  waves  in  the  breeze  ; 
The  scattered  stones  look  desolate  ; 

The  sod  they  rested  on 
Has  been  ploughed  up  by  stranger  hands, 

Since  you  and  I  were  gone. 

The  chestnut  tree  is  dead,  John  ; 

And,  what  is  sadder  now, 
The  broken  grape  vine  of  our  swing 

Hangs  on  the  withered  bough  ; 


THE    OLD    PLAT-GROUND.  69 

I  read  our  names  upon  the  bark, 

And  found  the  pebbles  rare 
Laid  up  beneath  the  hollow  side, 

As  we  had  piled  them  there. 

Beneath  the  grass-grown  bank,  John, 

I  looked  for  our  old  spring, 
That  bubbled  down  the  alder  path 

Three  paces  from  the  swing ; 
The  rushes  grow  upon  the  brink, 

The  pool  is  Hack  and  bare, 
And  not  a  foot,  this  many  a  day, 

It  seems,  has  trodden  there. 

I  took  the  old  blind  road,  John, 

That  wandered  up  the  hill ; 
'Tis  darker  than  it  used  to  be, 

And  seems  so  lone  and  still. 
The  birds  sing  yet  among  the  boughs 

Where  once  the  sweet  grapes  hung, 
But  not  a  voice  of  human  kind 

Where  all  our  voices  rung. 

I  sat  me  on  the  fence,  John, 

That  lies  as  in  old  time, 
The  same  half  panel  in  the  path 

We  used  so  oft  to  climb ; 
I  thought  how  o'er  the  bars  of  life 

Our  playmates  had  passed  on, 
And  left  me  counting  on  this  spot 

The  faces  that  are  gone. 


70  LEARX   TO    SAT,  NO. 


LEARN   TO    SAY,    NO. 

A  VERY  wise  and  excellent  mother  gave  the  fol- 
lowing advice  with  her  dying  breath  :  "  My  son, 
learn  to  say,  No."  Not  that  she  did  mean  to  coun- 
sel her  son  to  be  a  churl  in  speech,  or  to  be  stiff- 
hearted  in  things  that  were  indifferent  or  trivial, 
and  much  less  did  she  counsel  him  to  put  his  nega- 
tive upon  the  calls  of  charity  and  the  impulses  of 
humanity  ;  but  her  meaning  was,  that,  along  with 
gentleness  of  manners  and  benevolence  of  dispo- 
sition, he  should  possess  an  inflexible  firmness  of 
purpose  —  a  quality  beyond  all  price,  whether  it 
regards  the  sons  or  the  daughters  of  our  fallen  race. 

Persons  so  infirm  of  purpose,  so  wanting  in  reso- 
lution, as  to  be  incapable,  in  almost  any  case,  of 
saying,  No,  are  among  the  most  hapless  of  human 
beings  ;  and  that  notwithstanding  their  sweetness 
of  temper,  their  courteousness  of  demeanor,  and 
whatever  else  of  amiable  and  estimable  qualities 
they  possess.  Though  they  see  the  right,  they 


LEARN   TO    SAT,   NO.  71 

pursue  the  wrong ;  not  so  much  out  of  inclination,  as 
from  a  frame  of  mind  disposed  to  yield  to  every 
solicitation. 

An  historian  of  a  former  and  distant  age  says  of 
a  Frenchman  who  ranked  as  the  first  prince  of  the 
blood,  that  he  had  a  bright  and  knowing  mind, 
graceful  sprightliness,  good  intentions,  complete  dis- 
interestedness, and  an  incredible  easiness  of  manners, 
but  that,  with  all  these  qualities,  he  acted  a  most 
contemptible  part  for  the  want  of  resolution  ;  that 
he  came  into  all  the  factions  of  his  time,  because  he 
wanted  power  to  resist  those  who  drew  him  in  for 
their  own  interests ;  but  that  he  never  came  out  of 
any  but  with  shame,  because  he  wanted  resolution 
to  support  himself  whilst  he  was  in  them. 

It  is  owing  to  the  want  of  resolution,  more  than 
to  the  want  of  sound  sense,  that  a  great  many  per- 
sons have  run  into  imprudences,  injurious,  and  some- 
times fatal,  to   their  worldly  interests.     Numerous 
instances  of  this  might  be  named,  but  I  shall  content 
myself  with  naming  only  one,  and  that  is,  rash  and 
hazardous  suretyship.     The  pit  stands  uncovered, 
and  yet  men  of  good  sense,  as  well  as  of  amiable  i 
dispositions,  plunge  themselves  into  it  with   their  j 
eyes  wide  open.     Notwithstanding  the  solemn  warn-  : 
ings  in  the  proverbs  of  the  wise  man,  and  notwith- 


72  LEARN   TO   SAT,  NO. 

standing  the  examples  of  the  fate  of  so  many  that 
have  gone  before  them,  they  make  the  hazardous 
leap.  And  why?  Not  from  inclination,  or  with  a 
willing  mind,  but  because,  being  solicited,  urged, 
and  entreated,  they  know  not  how  to  say,  No.  .If 
they  had  learned  not  only  to  pronounce  that  mono- 
syllable, but  to  make  use  of  it  on  all  proper  occa- 
sions, it  might  have  saved  from  ruin  themselves  and 
their  wives  and  children. 

But  the  worst  of  it  is  still  behind.  The  ruin  of 
character,  of  morals,  and  of  the  very  heart  and  soul 
of  man,  originates  often  in  a  passive  yieldingness  of 
temper  and  disposition,  or  in  the  want  of  the  reso- 
lution to  say,  No.  Thousands  and  many  thousands, 
through  this  weakness,  have  been  the  victims  of 
craft  and  deceit.  Thousands  and  many  thousands, 
once  of  fair  promise,  but  now  sunk  in  depravity  and 
wretchedness,  owe  their  ruin  to  the  act  of  consent- 
ing, against  their  better  judgments,  to  the  entice- 
ment of  evil  companions  and  familiars.  Had  they 
said,  No,  when  duty,  when  honor,  when  conscience, 
when  every  thing  sacred  demanded  it  of  them, 
happy  might  they  now  have  been  —  the  solace  of 
their  kindred  and  the  ornaments  of  society. 

Sweetness   of    temper,  charitableness   of   heart, 
gentleness   of   demeanor,   together  with  a  strong 


& 


LEARN   TO    SAT,   NO.  73 

disposition  to  act  obligingly,  and  even  to  be  yield- 
ing in  things  indifferent,  or  of  trifling  moment,  are 
amiable  and  estimable  traits  of  the  human  charac- 
ter ;  but  there  must  be  withal,  and  as  the  ground- 
work of  the  whole,  such  a  firmness  of  resolution  as 
will  guaranty  it  against  yielding,  either  imprudently 
or  immorally,  to  solicitations  and  enticements.  Else 
one  has  very  little  chance,  in  passing  down  the  cur- 
rent of  life,  of  escaping  the  eddies  and  quicksands 
that  lie  in  his  way. 

Firmness  of  purpose  is  one  of  the  most  necessary 
sinews  of  character,  and  one  of  the  best  instruments 
of  success  ;  without  it,  genius  wastes  its  efforts  in  a 
maze  of  inconsistencies,  and  brings  to  its  possessor 
disgrace  rather  than  honor. 


74  THE    VILLAGE    CLOCK. 


THE   VILLAGE    CLOCK. 


WHITTEN   IN  THE   BELFEY  OF  AN   OLD   CHUKCH. 

_^    <  ,  T-  o- 


FROM  here  we  catch  its  measured  stroke, 
Artistic  as  a  minstrel's  rhyme  ; 
List  to  its  ceaseless  tick,  tick,  tick  — 

It  is  the  pulse  of  Time  ! 
With  every  tick  our  seconds  pass, 
Our  heart-beats  are  the  falling  sands 
Within  an  unseen  hour-glass. 

There  is  a  heart  in  this  old  clock,  — 
Its  tongue  speaks  hourly  to  the  town,  — 
Which  has,  since  flrst  it  'gan  to  throb, 

Seen  many  a  heart  run  down, 
Seen  many  a  human  clock  grow  dumb, 
Seen  many  a  life  sway  to  and  fro, 
As  restless  as  the  pendulum. 

The  chiming  of  these  metal  lips, 
Which  wake  such  melody  at  nine, 
Has  rung  in  other  ears,  my  friend, 
Than  those  of  thine  and  mine  ; 


(g) 


THE    VILLAGE    CLOCK.  75 

In  the  still  graveyard,  in  the  dell, 
There  slumber  hundreds  who  have  heard 
The  music  of  this  sweet  old  bell. 

And  when  we  join  the  group  which  sleeps 
So  calmly  in  the  sunshine  there, 
This  pulse  will  tick  the  same  as  now, 

And,  in  the  twilight  air, 
This  bell  to  other,  stranger  ears, 
Will  say  the  same  odd  words  it  said, 
Sweet  words  to  us,  in  other  years. 

The  swallow  in  the  belfry  high, 

Each  summer  time,  will  build  its  nest ; 

The  ring-dove  seek  it  in  the  storm, 

To  smooth  its  ruffled  breast ; 
The  busy  spider  in  the  light 
Will  spin  quaint  fancies  round  the  posts  ; 
The  mournful  curfew  sound  at  night. 

The  shadows  on  the  antique  porch 
Will  come  and  go  in  silent  waves  ; 
The  moss  will  grow  upon  the  roof, 

The  daisies  on  our  grave  ; 
The  clock  will  tick,  St.  Agnes  chime 
The  Sunday  in  —  but  not  for  us  ; 

We  will  not  heed  the  pulse  of  'Time  ! 


76  THE   TWO    PALACES. 


THE   TWO   PALACES. 


I  HAD  been  trying  to  exclude  outward  objects 
from  my  mind,  and  turn  my  thoughts  inward  upon 
the  soul.  I  endeavored  to  think  of  its  origin,  of  its 
capacities,  of  its  never-ending  existence ;  my  mind 
became  bewildered  by  the  subject,  and  I  fell  asleep, 
and  dreamed. 

A  form  of  divine  beauty  stood  beside  me,  and 
pointed  towards  a  noble  palace,  that  at  a  little  dis- 
tance rose  before  me.  It  was  vast,  and  symmetrical 
in  its  proportions,  and  of  a  dazzling  whiteness. 
Clear,  rosy  light  hovered  above  it  like  a  cloud,  and 
air  bracing  as  that  of  the  mountains,  yet  soft  as  in 
early  June,  floated  around  it. 

"  Enter ! "  said  my  guide.  In  another  moment  I 
stood  within  the  palace,  astonished  at  its  splendor. 
Above  me  rose  a  crystal  dome,  through  which  a 
flood  of  morning  light  streamed.  The  floor  was 
inlaid  with  gems  that  reflected  the  light  in  a  thou- 
sand hues,  so  that  there  was  no  hiding-place  for 


THE    TWO    PALACES.  77 

darkness  in  all  the  palace.  The  walls  were  hung 
with  pictures,  some  of  them  of  scenes  familiar  to 
me  and  very  dear,  while  others  represented  forms 
and  places  more  glorious  than  any  of  which  I  had 
ever  dreamed.  My  ear  was  delighted  also- with  the 
songs  I  heard,  sweeter  than  the  carol  of  early  birds. 
I  could  not  see  the  singers ;  but  it  was  as  if  their 
music  filled  all  the  air. 

This  palace,  as  I  have  said,  was  very  vast ;  and 
yet  it  seemed,  in  some  mysterious  way,  constantly  to 
increase  in  magnitude,  and  as  constantly  to  receive 
additional  resources.  It  was  full  of  people,  all 
beautiful,  and  all  active. 

"Who,"  said  I,  addressing  my  guide,  "is  that 
grave  and  dignified  personage  who  stands  in  the 
central  court,  to  whom  all  eyes  are  so  often  di- 
rected ?  " 

"  That  is  Order,"  he  answered  ;  "  for  order  reigns 
here,  as  well  as  in  heaven." 

"And  who  is  she,  with  a  bloom  like  the  young 
rose,  and  eyes  so  full  of  purity  and  tenderness? 
All  smile  as  she  approaches,  and  she  glides  about 
like  a  spirit,  leaving  her  own  image  upon  every  face 
she  looks  at." 

"  That  is  Love." 

"  And  she,  who  follows  her  every  where,  as  if  she 


78  THE   TWO    PALACES. 

were  her  shadow,  with  the  light  step  and  evergreen 
garland  ?  " 

"  That  is  Joy." 

"  Will  you  not  point  them  all  out  to  me  ?  "  I  said 
to  my  guide  ;  "  I  would  know  them  all.  I  have  never 
seen  so  goodly  a  palace,  or  beings  so  fair  as  these." 

A  grave  smile  passed  over  his  face,  and  he  pointed 
to  the  door,  through  whose  golden  archway  two 
figures  were  just  then  entering.  One  was  tall,  and 
of  a  lofty  carriage,  with  large,  bright  eyes,  and  a 
robe  that  seemed  wrought  with  sunbeams.  She  car- 
ried in  her  hand  a  rich  casket  of  jewels,  and  looking 
upon  it  she  smiled  joyfully,  then  glanced  upward, 
and  then  bent  her  eyes  reverently  upon  the  small, 
yet  graceful  figure  at  her  side. 

"  These,"  said  my  guide,  "  are  Knowledge  and 
Humility ;  for  here  they  always  walk  together. 
Knowledge  has  brought  vast  treasures  to  this 
palace,  and  is  constantly  bringing  more.  She  has 
collected  the  choicest  gems  of*sea  and  land.  She 
has  sailed  over  the  wide  ocean  of  Immensity,  and 
brought  away  riches  from  the  stars.  She  has  talked 
with  angels,  and  her  choicest  treasures  were  brought 
directly  from  the  presence  chamber  of  God  himself. 
See,  now,  how  she  loves  Humility.  She  has  always 
done  so  since  she  has  seen  the  Lord. 


THE    TWO   PALACES.  79 

• 

"  Now  turn  thine  eyes  in  another  direction.  Ob- 
serve Wisdom.  He  it  is,  with  such  a  depth  of 
thought  expressed  in  his  large  eyes.  That  bold- 
looking  personage  upon  whom  he  leans  is  Truth, 
and  the  fair  being  who  so  much  attracts  you,  reclin- 
ing by  Wisdom's  side,  whose  white  robe  and  inno- 
cent eyes  seem  so  well  to  harmonize,  is  Purity. 

"You. will  remark  that  this  palace  is  large  in- 
deed, and  in  no  part  unoccupied,  and  yet  there  is 
not  a  single  deformed  or  unlovely  person  in  it  all. 
Neither  are  there  any  discords  here,  nor  any  sor- 
rows. Happiness,  here,  is  perfect  and  complete. 
Yet  it  was  not  always  so.  You  will  scarcely  believe 
me,  when  I  tell  you  that  this  fine  palace  was  once  a 
ruin,  occupied  by  fierce  banditti.  It  was  ransomed 
from  their  hands  at  a  great  price,  by  the  mighty 
prince  who  now  rules  over  it,  and  who  has  made  it 
what  you  wonder  to  behold. 

"But  come  now  with  me,  and  I  will  show  you 
what  this  palace  might  have  been,  by  showing  you 
another." 

I  sighed  to  leave  such  a  scene  of  beauty  and  bless- 
edness ;  but  my  guide  beckoned  me  on.  In  a  short 
time,  I  had  left  behind  me  the  golden  dome  and 
lofty  portal,  and  found  myself  in  the  region  of  night 
and  gloom. 


<§> 


80  THE   TWO   PALACES. 

Again  I  stood  before  a  vast  palace,  if  that  could 
be  called  a  palace  from  which  every  traco  of  royalty 
was  gone.  The  heavens  seemed  to  frown  upon  it, 
and  the  walls  looked  blackened  and  blasted,  as  if 
by  lightning.  A  lurid  light  streamed  from  the  win- 
dows, exposing  all  the  ruin  ;  and  with  it  came  a 
voice  like  the  midnight  wind  of  winter;  now,  a 
low  and  heavy  sigh ;  now,  a  long  wail ;  and  now, 
a  wild  shriek,  that  seemed  borne  from  some  dis- 
tant sea. 

"  Look  within,"  said  my  guide,  "  and  tell  me  if 
this  is  like  the  other,  or  like  any  thing  thou  hast 
ever  seen." 

I  looked,  and  shuddered.  How  shall  I  describe 
what  I  there  saw  ?  No  light  from  above ;  but  a 
great  furnace,  from  beneath,  made  the  place  hideous. 
And  yet  there  were  pictures  of  beauty  upon  those 
walls,  as  upon  the  other  palace.  I  recognized  some 
of  the  same  scenes ;  but  here  they  seemed  burnt  in 
as  by  fire,  and  spiders,  and  toads,  and  venomous 
serpents  crawled  over  them. 

This  palace,  too,  was  full  of  inhabitants  ;  but  how 
unlike  the  other!  Here  Discord  ruled;  here  Love 
was  displaced  by  Hatred  ;  and  Wisdom,  Truth,  and 
Purity  were  quite  shut  out.  One  who  was  called 
Knowledge  was  here  ;  but  how  different  from  the 


THE   TWO    PALACES.  81 

angelic  being  I  saw  in  the  other  palace !  She  car- 
ried in  her  hand  a  basket  of  the  forbidden  fruit  of 
paradise,  and  wore  around  her  head  a  garland  of 
its  deadly  leaves.  Pride  was  her  companion,  and 
Misery  followed  her. 

Yet,  in  this  fearful  place,  there  was  one  person 
evidently  of  divine  origin.  I  pointed  him  out  to  my 
guide.  "Who  is  he,"  I  said,  "with  the  pure  robe, 
uplifted  finger,  and  stern  eye  —  he  who  is  always 
speaking,  and  whose  voice  grows  louder  and  more 
terrible  every  moment  ?  " 

"  That,"  he  answered,  "  is  Conscience.  He  is 
stronger  than  the  strong  man  armed,  and  cannot  be 
driven  out.  Conscience  is  unconquered  and  uncon- 
querable." 

"Will  he,  then,"  I  asked,  "at  some  future  period, 
make  this  palace  like  the  other  ?  Will  he  trans- 
form these  miserable  beings  into  pure  spirits,  ex- 
tinguish this  fiery  furnace,  and  let  in  light  from 
heaven  ? " 

"  Alas,  no ! "  replied  my  guide.  "  He»is  here  as  a 
tormentor  only.  They  would  not  accept  a  ransom. 
This  palace  must  remain  a  ruin. 

"  And  now,"  he  added,  as  he  led  me  away  from 
this  dismal  scene,  "  hast  thou  understood  these  things 
that  I  have  shown  thee  ?  " 


82  THE    OLD    KIRK-YARD. 

"  Only  in  part,"  I  answered.  "  "What  dost  thou 
seek  to  teach  rtie  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  palace,"  he  replied,  "  thou  hast  seen 
a  human  soul,  saved,  sanctified,  glorified.  In  the 
second  palace,  also,  thou  hast  seen  a  human  soul, 
that  would  not  be  redeemed,  and  must  remain  a 
wreck  forever !  " 


THE    OLD    KIRK-YARD. 


0  COME,  come  with  me  to  the  old  kirk -yard : 

1  well  know  the  path  through  the  soft  green  sward ; 
Friends  slumber  there  we  were  wont  to  regard  ; 
We'll  trace  out  their  names  in  the  old  kirk-yard. 

O,  mourn  not  for  them  ;  their  grief  is  o'er  ; 
0,  weep  not  for  them  ;  they  weep  no  more ; 
For  deep  is  their  sleep,  though  cold  and  hard 
Their  pillow  may  be,  in  the  old  kirk-yard. 

I  know  'tis  in  vain,  when  friends  depart, 
To  breathe  kind  words  to  a  broken  heart ; 
I  know  that  the  joy  of  life  seems  marred, 
When  we  follow  them  home  to  the  old  kirk-yard. 


THE    TRESS    OF   HAIK.  83 


THE    TRESS    OF    HAIR. 


A  SINGLE  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  sacred  relic  kept  with  care, 
A  memory  of  one  so  fair, 

That  angels  left  their  hymning  band 
And  came  to  earth,  to  take  his  hand 
And  lead  him  to  the  unseen  land. 

But  ere  he  trod  the  starry  way 
That  leadeth  to  eternal  day, 
As  calm  and  beautiful  he  lay, 

This  curling  tress  of  golden  hair, 
This  sacred  relic  kept  with  care, 
She  gathered  from  his  forehead  fair. 

O,  lingering  o'er  the  treasure  long, 

A  thousand  tender  memories  throng  — 

She  hears  again  his  cradle  song ! 

And  yesternight,  before  she  slept, 
She  pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  wept, 
"Warm  tear-drops  down  her  pale  face  crept ; 


84  i  CAN'T. 

While  to  her  aching  heart  she  said, 
"  Why  mournest  thou  that  he  is  dead  ? 
He  sleepeth  in  a  peaceful  bed. 

"  God  called  him  to  a  sweet  repose ; 
And  he  hath  slept  through  winter's  snows, 
Till  now  the  dewy  violet  blows. 

"  Above  his  grave  soft  mosses  spring, 
And  birds  with  free  and  happy  wing 
All  day  their  heaven-tuned  praises  sing. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  with  joy  the  April  rain 
Thrills  nature's  breast ;  but  mine  with  pain 
Sigheth,  he  will  not  come  again." 


I   CAN'T. 


NEVER  say,  "  I  can't,"  my  dear ; 

Never  say  it. 
When  such  words  as  those  I  hear 

From  the  lips  of  boy  or  girl, 
Oft  they  make  me  doubt  and  fear ; 

Never  say  it. 

Boys  and  girls  that  nimbly  play 
Never  say  it ; 
They  can  jump  and  run  away, 


@ 

i  CAN'T.  85 

Skip,  and  toss,  and  play  their  pranks  ; 
Even  dull  ones,  when  they're  gay, 
Never  say  it. 

Never  mind  how  hard  the  task, 

Never  say  it ; 
Find  some  one  who  knows,  and  ask, 

Till  you  have  your  lessons  learned ; 
Never  mind  how  bard  the  task, 
Never  say  it. 

Men  who  do  the  noblest  deeds 

Never  say  it ; 
He  who  lacks  the  strength  he  needs, 

Tries  his  best  and  gets  it  soon, 
And  at  last  he  will  succeed  ; 

Never  say  it 

But  when  the  evil  tempt  to  wrong, 

Always  say  it. 
In  your  virtue  firm  and  strong, 

Drive  the  tempter  from  your  sight ; 
And  when  follies  round  you  throng, 

Ever  say  it. 

When  good  actions  call  you  near, 
Never  say  it. 
Drive  away  the  rising  fear, 

Get  your  strength  where  good  men  do  ; 
All  your  paths  will  then  be  clear. 
Would  you  find  a  happy  year  ? 
Would  you  save  a  sorrowing  tear  ? 
Never  say  it 


86  FANXT   AND    FLORA. 


FANNY   AND    FLORA. 


IT  was  in  the  leafy  month  of  September  ;  the  time 
was  twilight.  Two  young  ladies  sat  in  the  room  of 
their  boarding  house,  gayly  chatting.  They  were 
sisters.  One  was  tall  and  dignified  in  her  appear- 
ance, yet  easy  and  familiar  ;  her  bright,  sparkling 
eye  and  merry  laugh  at  once  banished  a  thought  of 
sadness.  The  other,  though  not  so  delicate  in  form, 
was  beautiful  ;  for  her  large,  soul-lit  eyes,  as  she 
gazed  upon  her  sister,  spoke  volumes  of  intellectual 
worth.  They  were  from  home,  attending  school  at 

the  excellent  institution  at  L ;  and  it  is  useless 

to  say,  that  they  were  looked  up  to  by  all  as  supe- 
riors. Wealth  was  theirs,  and  it  exerted,  as  it  ever 
does,  an  extensive  influence  around  them,  making  all 
hearts  bow  beneath  the  mystic  spell.  And  as  we 
look  around  the  room,  we  see  many  things  that 
wealth  and  good  taste  have  produced,  to  add  to 
their  happiness.  In  one  corner  is  an  elegant  ser- 
aphine,  which  tells  that  they  love  to  "  discourse 
sweet  music."  And  even  now,  if  you  listen,  you 


FANNY    AND    FLORA.  87 

will  hear  them  consulting  one  another  upon  the  pro- 
priety of  attending  the  choir  meeting,  which  was  to 
be  that  evening.  They  decided  to  go,  and,  rising 
hastily,  they  threw  aside  their  thick,  warm  cash- 
meres, for  thin,  light  bareges,  and  thus  imprudently 
prepared  themselves  for  the  evening's  pleasure, 
and  stepping  forth  from  their  comfortable  room 
into  the  cold,  damp  air  of  an  autumn  night,  hurried 
to  the  place  of  the  appointed  meeting,  little  think- 
ing that  they  should  never  sing  together  again. 
They  were,  as  usual,  the  gayest  among  the  crowd. 
But  all  evenings  have  an  end,  and  so  did  this  even- 
ing. The  sisters  returned  home  in  good  season,  for 
it  was  Saturday  night.  Next  day  the  youngest  com- 
plained of  slight  indisposition,  but  they  both  attend- 
ed church.  Upon  rising  the  following  morning,  it 
was  found  that  Flora  had  taken -a  severe  cold.  Her 
ever-kind  landlady  did  all  she  could  to  quiet  the 
raging  fever,  but  all  in  vain.  So  they  decided  to 
carry  her  home,  that  a  kind  mother  might  bend  over 
her,  and,  if  possible,  mitigate  every  pain.  Still  the 
disease  progressed,  and  baffled  the  best  of  medical 
skill.  Fanny  remained  at  school ;  but  think  you  she 
could  study  then,  knowing  that  her  lovely  sister  was 
rapidly  passing  away  ?  Ah,  no !  it  could  not  be. 
One  afternoon,  as  she  was  returning  from  school, 
I  ==& 


88  FANNT   AND    FLORA. 

sad  and  lonely,  she  paused  at  her  own  door,  to 
satisfy  the  eager  inquiries  of  her  schoolmates  after 
her  sister,  and  looking  down  the  street,  saw  a  car- 
riage approaching,  bearing  an  elderly  gentleman. 
She  looked  but  once,  gave  one  wild  cry,  and  rushed 
into  the  house.  Need  I  tell  you,  it  was  her  uncle, 
who  had  come  to  take  her  home,  that  she  might 
have  the  privilege  of  bidding  her  sister  a  last  fare- 
well ?  She  read  in  his  silent  and  mournful  counte- 
nance the  painful  truth.  But  long  ere  she  reached 
home,  reason  had  fled  from  that  lovely  brow,  and 
she  met  no  familiar  greeting  from  the  dearly-cher- 
ished one.  But  at  last  the  dread  summons  came; 
the  last  sigh  was  heard,  and  her  sweet  spirit  passed 
away.  Then  the  news  flew  over  hill  and  dale,  to 
that  band  of  mourning  scholars,  and  touched  a 
chord  in  every  bosom.  Never  did  school  seem  so 
completely  stripped  of  every  pleasure  as  it  did  then. 
And  with  the  news  came  a  kind  invitation,  from  the 
heart-stricken  parents,  requesting  the  attendance  of 
both  teacher  and  scholars  at  the  funeral.  This 
request  they  complied  with  ;  and  as  carriage  after 
carriage  rolled  up  to  the  door,  bearing  its  burden 
of  loved  schoolmates,  they  noiselessly  entered  the 
house  of  death,  to  greet  the  lonely  sister  with  tears. 
How  sad  and  how  changed  the  scene  !  The  lovely 

(Q) 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    FIREFLY.  89 

Flora,  who  was  ever  ready  to  meet  friends  with  a 
smile,  was  then  shrouded  for  the  tomb.  And  as  the 
bell  tolled  a  requiem  low,  each  loving  friend 
dropped  a  silent  tear  for  her  who  had  gone  "  to  that 
land  from  whose  bourn  no  traveller  returns." 


THE   TALE   OF   THE   FIREFLY. 


ON  the  evening  of  a  hot  and  sultry  summer  day, 
Maria,  a  poor  widow,  sat  at  the  open  window  of  her 
little  chamber,  and  gazed  out  upon  the  neat  orchard 
which  surrounded  her  cottage.  The  grass  had  been 
mown  in  the  morning,  but  the  heat  of  the  sun  had 
soon  dried  it.  She  had  already  gathered  it  into 
heaps,  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the  hay  now  blew  into 
her  chamber,  as  if  to  refresh  and  strengthen  her  after 
her  labor.  The  glow  of  sunset  was  already  fading 
upon  the  border  of  the  clear  and  cloudless  sky,  and 
the  moon  shone  calm  and  bright  into  the  little 
chamber,  shadowing  the  square  panes  of  the  half- 
open  window,  together  with  the  grape  vine  which 

» 

adorned  it,  upon  'the  nicely-sanded  floor.      Little 
Ferdinand,  a  boy  of  six  years  of  age,  stood  leaning 


90  THE    TALE    OF    THE    FIREFLY. 

against  the  window  frame ;  his  blooming  face  and 
yellow  locks,  with  a  portion  of  his  white,  clean  shirt 
sleeves  and  scarlet  vest,  were  distinctly  visible  in 
the  moonlight. 

The  poor  woman  was  sitting  thus  to  rest  herself, 
perhaps.  But  oppressive  as  had  been  the  labor  of 
the  sultry  day,  yet  a  heavier  burden  weighed  upon 
her  bosom,  and  rendered  her  forgetful  of  her  weari- 
ness. 

She  had  eaten  but  a  spoonful  or  two  of  her  supper, 
which  consisted  of  bread  and  milk.  Little  Ferdi- 
nand was  also  greatly  disturbed,  but  did  not  speak, 
because  he  saw  that  his  mother  was  so  sorrowful ; 
having  observed  that  his  mother,  instead  of  eating, 
wept  bitterly,  he  laid  aside  his  spoon,  and  the  earth- 
en dish  stood  upon  the  table  almost  as  full  as  when 
served  up. 

Maria  was  left  a  widow  in  the  early  part  of  the 
previous  spring.  Her  deceased  husband,  one  of  the 
worthiest  men  of  the  village,  had,  by  industry  and 
economy,  saved  a  sum  of  money  sufficient  to  purchase 
the  little  cottage,  with  its  neat  meadow,  though  not 
entirely  free  from  encumbrance.  The  industrious 
man  had  planted  the  green  and  cheerful  field  with 
young  trees,  which  already  bore  the  finest  fruit.  He 
had  chosen  Maria  for  his  wife,  although  she  was  a 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    FIREFLY.  91 

poor  orphan,  and  her  parents  had  been  able  to  give 
her  nothing  more  than  a  good  education  ;  he  had 
chosen  her  because  she  was  known  as  the  most  pious, 
industrious,  and  well-behaved  maiden  in  the  village. 
They  had  lived  happy  together.  But  the  typhus 
fever  broke  out  in  the  village,  and  her  husband  died. 
Having  nursed  him  with  the  greatest  tenderness,  she 
was  herself  attacked  with  it  after  his  death,  and 
barely  escaped  with  life. 

Her  husband's  sickness  and  her  own  had  thrown 
them  much  behindhand  ;  but  now  she  must  even 
part  with  her  little  cottage.  Her  deceased  husband 
had  long  labored  for  the  richest  peasant  in  the  coun- 
try, a  man  by  the  name  of  Meyer.  The  peasant, 
who  highly  esteemed  him  on  account  of  his  fidelity 
and  industry,  had  lent  him  three  hundred  crowns  to 
purchase  this  cottage  and  ground  belonging  to  it, 
upon  the  condition  that  he  would  pay  off  fifty 
crowns  yearly,  twenty-five  in  money  and  twenty-five 
in  labor.  Until  the  year  that  he  was  taken  sick,  her 
husband  had  faithfully  performed  his  agreement,  and 
the  debt  now  amounted  to  but  fifty  crowns.  Maria 
knew  all  this  very  well. 

Meyer  now  died  of  the  same  disease.  The  heirs, 
a  son  and  a  daughter-in-law,  found  the  note  for 
three  hundred  crowns  among  the  papers  of  the  de- 
, .  -^ 


92  THE    TALE    OF    THE    FIREFLY. 

ceased.  They  did  not  know  a  word  about  the  affair, 
as  the  old  man  had  never  spoken  of  it  to  them. 
The  terrified  woman  assured  them,  called  Heaven  to 
witness,  that  her  deceased  husband  had  paid  off  the 
whole  except  fifty  crowns.  But  all  was  of  no  avail. 
The  young  peasant  called  her  a  shameless  liar,  and 
summoned  her  before  a  court  of  law.  As  she  could 
not  prove  that  any  thing  had  been  paid,  it  was  de- 
cided that  the  whole  claim  was  valid.  The  heirs 
insisted  upon  payment,  and  as  poor  Maria  had 
nothing  but  her  cottage  and  grounds,  this  little 
property  must  now  be  sold.  She  had  fallen  upon 
her  knees  before  the  heirs,  and  had  prayed  them  not 
to  turn  her  out  of  doors ;  little  Ferdinand  wept 
with  her  —  both  wept ;  but  all  was  in  vain.  The 
following  morning  was  appointed  for  the  sale.  She 
heard  this  an  hour  before,  just  as  she  had  finished 
her  day's  work.  A  neighbor  had  called  out  over 
the  hedge  and  told  it  to  her. 

It  was  for  this  reason  that  she  now  sat  so  sorrow- 
ful by  the  open  window,  glancing  now  upward  to 
the  clear  sky,  now  upon  Ferdinand,  and  then  gazing 
steadily  upon  the  floor.  There  was  a  sad  silence. 

"  Alas ! "  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  have  to-day,  then, 
raked  the  hay  from  the  orchard  for  the  last  time. 
The  early  yellow  plums  which  I  picked  this  morn- 


THE    TALE    OF    THE   FIREFLY.  93 

* 

ing  for  Ferdinand  are  the  last  fruit  which  the  poor 
boy  will  eat  from  the  trees  which  his  father  planted 
for  him.  Yes,  this  may  be  the  last  night  we  may 
spend  beneath  this  roof.  By  this  time  to-morrow, 
this  cottage  will  be  another's  property ;  and  who  can 
say  but  we  shall  be  turned  out  at  once  ?  Heaven 
alone  knows  where  we  shall  find  a  shelter  to-morrow. 
Perhaps  under  the  open  heavens !  "  She  began  to 
sob  violently. 

Little  Ferdinand,  who  until  now  had  not  moved, 
came  forward,  and  weeping,  said,  — 

"  Mother,  do  not  cry  so  bitterly,  or  else  I  cannot 
talk  to  you.  Do  you  not  know  what  father  said,  as 
he  died  there  on  that  bed  ?  '  Do  not  weep  so/  he 
said  ;  '  God  is  a  Father  to  the  poor  widows  and 
orphans.  Call  upon  him  in  thy  distress,  and  he  will 
aid  thee.'  This  is  what  he  said  ;  and  is  it  not  true, 
then  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  dear  child,"  said  the  mother,  "it  is 
true." 

"  Well,"  said  the  boy,  "  why  do  you  weep  so  long, 
then  ?  Pray,  and  he  will  help  you." 

"Good  child,  thou  art  right!"  said  his  mother ; 
and  her  tears  flowed  less  bitterly,  and  comfort  was 

mingled  with  her  sorrow.     She  folded  her  arms,  and 

<=  ^ . 

raised  her  moist  eyes  towards  heaven,  and  Ferdinand 

@ 


94  THE    TALE    OF    THE    FIREFLY. 

folded  his  hands  also,  and  looked  upward,  and  the 
bright  moon  shone  upon  mother  and  child. 

And  the  mother  began  to  pray,  and  the  boy  re- 
peated every  word  after  her  :  — 

"  Great  Father  in  heaven,"  she  said,  "  look  down 
upon  a  poor  mother  and  her  child  ;  a  poor  widow  • 
and  poor  orphan  raise  their  eyes  to  thee.  We  are 
in  great  need,  and  have  no  longer  any  refuge  upon 
the  earth.  But  thou  art  rich  in  mercy.  Thou  hast 
thyself  said,  '  Call  upon  me  in  the  day  of  thy  trou- 
ble, and  I  will  deliver  thee.'  0,  to  thee  we  pray. 
Thrust  us  not  from  this  dwelling  ;  take  not  all  from 
a  poor  orphan,  his  only  little  inheritance.  Or  if,  in 
thy  mysterious  but  still  most  wise  and  benevolent 
purposes,  thou  hast  otherwise  decreed,  prepare  for 
us  a  resting-place  upon  the  wide,  vast  earth.  0, 
pour  this  consolation  into  our  hearts,  lest  they  break 
as  we  wander  forth,  and  from  yonder  hill  turn  to 
look  for  the  last  time  upon  our  house ! " 

Sobs  interrupted  her ;  weeping,  she  gazed  towards 
heaven,  and  was  silent.  The  boy,  who  yet  stood 
with  folded  hands,  suddenly  exclaimed,  with  out- 
stretched finger,  — 

" Mother,  look !  "What  is  that?  Yonder  moves 
a  light.  Yonder  flies  a  little  star.  Look,  there  it 
hurries  by  the  window.  0,  see,  now  it  comes  in. 

(2)  - 


THE    TALE    OP    THE    FIREFLY.  95 

How  bright,  how  beautiful  it  shines !  Look,  only 
look  ;  it  has  a  greenish  light.  It  is  almost  as  beauti- 
ful as  the  evening  star.  Now  it  moves  along  the 
ceiling.  That  is  wonderful." 

"  It  is  a  firefly,  dear  Ferdinand,"  said  his  mother. 
• "  In  the  daytime  it  is  a  small,  unsightly  insect, 
but  in  the  night  it  gives  out  a  most  beautiful 
light." 

"May  I  catch  it?"  said  the  boy.  "Will  it  not 
hurt  me,  and  will  the  light  not  burn  me  ?  " 

"  It  will  not  burn  thee,"  said  the  mother  ;  and  she 
laughed,  while  the  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Catch  it,  and  examine  it  closer  ;  it  is  one  of  the 
wonders  of  almighty  power." 

The  boy,  entirely  forgetful  of  his  sorrow,  at  once 
tried  to  catch  the  sparkling  firefly,  now  on  the  floor, 
now  under  the  table,  now  under  the  chair. 

"  Ah  me,  what  a  pity ! "  said  the  boy ;  for,  as  he 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  catch  the  bright  insect,  it 
flew  behind  the  great  chest  that  stood  against  the 
wall.  He  looked  under  the  chest. 

"  I  see  it  plainly  enough,"  he  said  ;  "  there  it  is, 
close  against  the  wall  ;  and  the  white  wall  and  the 
floor,  and  every  bit  of  dust  near  it,  shines  as  if  the 
moon  shone  upon  it ;  but  I  cannot  reach  it ;  my  arm 
is  not  long*enough." 

—  -  — — co; 


96  THE   TALE    OF   THE   FIREFLY. 


"  Have  patience,"  said  the  mother  ;  "  it  will  soon 
come  out  again." 

The  boy  waited  a  little  while,  and  then  came  to 
his  mother  and  said,  with  a  soft,  imploring  voice,  — 

"Mother,  do  you  get  it  out  for  me,  or  move 
the  chest  a  little  from  the  wall,  and  I  can  easily 
catch  it." 

The  mother  rose,  moved  the  chest  from  the  wall, 
and  the  boy  took  the  quiet  firefly,  examined  it  in 
the  hollow  of  his  little  hand,  and  was  delighted 
with  it. 

But  his  mother's  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
different  object.  As  she  moved  the  chest,  something 
which  had  stuck  between  it  and  the  wall  fell  upon 
the  floor.  She  uttered  a  loud  cry  as  she  picked 
Hup. 

"  Ah,"  she  exclaimed, "  now  all  our  trouble  is  over. 
That  is  last  year's  account  book,  which  I  have  so 
long  looked  for  in  vain.  I  thought  it  had  been 
destroyed  as  of  no  value,  by  strangers,  perhaps, 
while  I  lay  senseless  during  my  illness.  Now  it  can 
be  shown  that  thy  father  paid  the  money  that  they 
demand  of  us.  Who  would  have  thought  that  the 
account  book  stuck  behind  the  great  chest  which  we 
took  with  the  cottage,  and  which  has  not  been 
moved  since  we  bought  it?" 


THE    TALE    OP    THE    FIREFLY.  97 

She  at  once  lighted  a  lamp,  turned  over  the  leaves 
of  the  account,  while  tears  of  joy  sparkled  in  her 
eyes.  Every  thing  was  correctly  put  'down ;  the 
sum  which  the  deceased  husband  owed  of  three  hun- 
dred crowns  at  the  beginning  of  the  year,  and  what 
he  paid  off  in  money  and  work.  Below  stood  the 
following  lines,  written  in  old  Meyer's  own  hand  :  — 

"  I  have  settled  accounts  with  James  Bloom  to- 
day, (St.  Martin's  day,)  and  he  now  owes  me  fifty 
crowns." 

The  mother  struck  her  hands  together  with  joy, 
embraced  her  child,  and  exclaimed  with  delight,  — 

"  0  Ferdinand,  give  thanks,  for  we  now  need  not 
leave  home  ;  now  we  can  remain  in  our  cottage." 

"  And  I  was  the  cause ;  .was  I  not,  mother  ?  "  said 
the  little  fellow.  "  If '  I  had  not  begged  you  to 
move  the  chest,  you  never  would  have  found  the 
book.  It  might  have  lain  there  a  hundred  years." 

The  mother  stood  for  a  while  in  silent  astonish- 
ment, and  then  said,  — 

"  0  my  child,  it  was  God's  doings.  I  feel  a  thrill 
of  awe  and  reverence  when  I  reflect  upon  it.  Look ! 
as  we  both  prayed  and  wept,  there  came  the  spar- 
kling firefly,  and  pointed  out  the  spot  where  this  book 
was  concealed.  Yes,  truly.  Nothing  comes  by 
chance.  Even  the  hairs  of  our  head  are  all  num- 


98  THE    TALE    OF   THE    FIREFLY. 

bcred  ;  not  one  of  them  falls  to  the  ground  without 
his  knowledge.  Bemember  this  for  thy  life  long, 
and  put  thy  trust  in  him,  especially  in  time  of  need. 
It  is  easy  for  him  to  aid  and  to  save.  He  does  not 
need  to  send  a  shining  angel  to  us.  He  can  send  us 
help  by  a  winged  insect." 

The  mother  could  not  sleep  that  night  for  joy. 
Soon  after  break  of  day  she  took  her  way  to  the 
judge,  who  at  once  sent  for  the  heir.  He  came.  He 
acknowledged  the  writing  as  genuine,  and  was  much 
ashamed  of  having  slandered  the  woman  before  the 
court,  and  having  called  her  a  liar.  The  judge  de- 
clared he  owed  her  some  recompense  for  the  shame 
and  great  sorrow  which  he  had  caused  her.  The 
man  was  not  willing  to  make  atonement  for  his 
injustice. 

But  when  the  poor  woman  had  related  the  whole 
account  of  her  evening  prayer,  and  the  appearance 
of  the  firefly,  the  judge  said,  — 

"  That  is  the  finger  of  God  ;  he  has  visibly  helped 
you." 

Young  Meyer,  however.,  was  much  moved,  and 
said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, — 

"  Yes,  it  is  so.  He  is  the  Father  of  the  widow 
and  the  fatherless,  and  their  Avenger  also.  Pardon 
me  for  harshness  towards  you  ;  I  release  you  from. 


@  •(§) 

COME    HOME.  99 


the  payment  of  the  fifty  crowns,  and  if  you  are  at 
any  time  in  need,  come  to  me,  and  I  will  assist  you. 
And  if  ever  I  come  to  want,  or  if  iny  wife  should  be 
a  widow  and  my  children  orphans,  may  He  help  us 
also,  as  he  has  helped  you." 


COME    HOME. 


BROTHER  dear,  why  dost  thou  stay 

From  thy  home  so  long  away  ? 
Know'st  thou  not  fond  ones  are  watching, 

Praying  for  thee  every  day  ? 
When  two  years  ago  you  left  us, 

"Withered  leaves  were  falling  fast ; 
Thickly  were  the  rain  drops  pouring, 

Hoarsely  wailed  the  autumn  blast. 

Brother,  in  our  household  circle 

Now  is  seen  one  vacant  chair ; 
Mother's  gone,  and  O,  how  lonely 

Seems  our  household  —  she's  not  there  ! 
When  she  lay  upon  her  death  bed, 

Oft  she  blest  her  absent  son, 
Prayed  that  she  in  heaven  might  meet  you, 

When  your  earthly  race  was  run. 


©= 


100  SORROW  'AT   THE    COTTAGE. 


SORROW   AT    THE    COTTAGE. 


CAMLY  fell  the  silver  moonlight 

Over  hill  and  over  dale, 
As,  with  mournful  hearts  we  lingered, 

By  the  couch  of  Agnes  Yale. 

She  was  dying,  —  our  sweet  Agnes,  — 
She  was  passing,  like  a  sigh, 

From  the  world  of  love  and  beauty, 
To  a  brighter  home  on  high. 

She  was  passing  like  a  vision 
Which  may  never  more  return, 

Or  like  flowers  which  meekly  wither 
Round  some  lone,  white  burial  urn. 

Brightly  dawned  the  morrow's  morning 

Over  hill  and  over  dale  ; 
Still  with  mournful  heart  we  lingered 

By  the  side  of  Agnes  Vale. 

Softly  through  the  trellised  window, 
Came  the  west  wind's  gentle  breath ; 


=(0, 


EXNUI.  101 

But  she  heeded  not  its  mildness, 
For  she  slept  the  sleep  of  death. 

Fondly  'mid  her  raven  tresses 

Twined  we  flowers  of  purest  white ; 

Then,  beside  yon  little  streamlet, 
Laid  they  Agnes  from  our  sight. 

There  she  sleeps,  our  gentle  sister, 
Where  the  stars  their  light  may  shed, 

In  serene  and  holy  quiet, 

O'er  the  loved,  the  early  dead. 

But  beyond  the  silver  moonbeams,  —       . 

Ay,  beyond  the  stars  of  night,  — 
Dwells  the  spirit  of  our  Agnes, 

In  the  home  of  angels  bright. 


ENNUI. 


To  live  —  to  breathe  —  is  a  great  task, 

Greater  than  can  be  well  performed ; 
And  who  in  this  wide  world,  I  ask, 

Has  raved,  has  fretted,  and  has  stormed 
Through  life's  rough  journey,  but  has  found 

That  life's  a  farce,  with  nothing  in  it  ? 
There's  not  a  wretch  above  the  ground, 

If  life  were  ended,  would  begin  it. 

(5).  ; ==  ===<§) 


@ 

102  COMFORT   IX   THE    COTTAGE. 


COMFORT    IN   THE    COTTAGE. 


I  MET  a  child ;  his  feet  were  bare, 

His  weak  frame  shivered  with  the  cold, 
His  youthful  brow  was  knit  by  care, 
His  flashing  eye  his  sorrow  told. 

Said  I,  "  Poor  boy,  why  weepest  thou  ?  " 
"  My  parents  both  are  dead,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  have  not  where  to  lay  my  head. 
O,  I  am  lone  and  friendless  now  !  " 
Not  friendless,  child  ;  a  Friend  on  high 
For  you  his  precious  blood  has  given  : 
Cheer  up,  and  bid  each  tear  be  dry  — 
There  are  no  tears  in  heaven. 

I  saw  a  man,  in  life's  gay  noon, 

Stand  weeping  o'er  his  young  bride's  bier  ; 
"  And  must  we  part,"  he  cried,  "  so  soon  ! " 
As  down  his  cheek  there  rolled  a  tear. 
"  Heart-stricken  one,"  said  I,  "  weep  not." 
"  "Weep  not !  "  in  accents  wild  he  cried ; 
"  But  yesterday  my  loved  one  died, 
And  shall  she  be  so  soon  forgot  ?  " 
Forgotten  ?     No !  still  let  her  love 

Sustain  thy  heart,  with  anguish  riven  ; 


COMFORT   IN    THE    COTTAGE.  103 

Strive  thou  to  meet  thy  bride  above, 

And  dry  your  tears  in  heaven. 
I  saw  a  gentle  mother  weep, 

As  to  her  throbbing  heart  she  pressed 
An  infant,  seemingly  asleep, 

On  its  kind  mother's  sheltering  breast. 

"  Fair  one,"  said  I,  "  pray,  weep  no  more." 
Sobbed  she,  "  The  idol  of  my  hope 
I  now  am  called  to  render  up ; 
My  babe  has  reached  death's  gloomy  shore." 
Young  mother,  yield  no  more  to  grief, 
Nor  be  by  passion's  tempest  driven, 
But  find  in  these  sweet  words  relief, 
"  There  are  no  tears  in  heaven." 

Poor  traveller  o'er  life's  troubled  wave,  — 

Cast  down  by  grief,  o'erwhelmed  by  care,  — 
There  is  an  arm  above  can  save ; 
Then  yield  not  thou  to  fell  despair. 
Look  upward,  mourners,  look  above  ! 
What  though  the  thunders  echo  loud, 
The  sun  shines  bright  beyond  the  cloud  ; 
Then  trust  in  thy  Redeemer's  love. 
Where'er  thy  lot  in  life  be  cast, 

Whate'er  of  toil  or  woe  be  given,  — - 
Be  firm  —  remember  to  the  last, 
"  There  are  no  tears  in  heaven." 


©-- 


® 

104        MT  MOTHER,  MOTHER,  MOTHER. 


MY   MOTHER-MOTHER-MOTHER. 


IT  is  said  that  these  were  among  the  last  words  of 
the  great  and  lamented  Henry  Clay., 

Mothers,  learn  here  a  lesson.  Look  at  your  sons 
and  daughters,  and  realize  this  important  truth,  that 
in  the  nursery  is  laid  the  foundation  of  your  child's 
future  life.  Instead  of  teaching  them  to  play  the 
empty-headed  coxcomb,  and  to  tete-d-tete  a  lifetime 
away  in  nonsense,  teach  them  the  path  of  true  great- 
ness and  usefulness.  Who  are  the  men  who  have 
adorned  human  nature,  and  reflected  a  halo  of  glory 
upon  their  country  ?  They  are,  with  few  exceptions, 
those  who  in  infancy  learned  to  clasp  their  tiny 
hands  and  kneel  at  a  mother's  side,  and  dedicated 
their  hearts  to  the  Father  of  Spirits. 
^A  mother's  hallowed  influence  never  dies.  The 
boy  never  forgets  his  mother's  love.  Though  he 
may  wander  far  from  home,  and  engage  in  many 
vices,  yet  that  mother's  voice,  soft  and  tender,  that 
fell  upon  his  ear  in  infancy,  is  borne  upon  many  a 

@  '  -=< 


MY   MOTHER,    MOTHER,    MOTHER.  105 

passing  breeze,  and  whispers,  "  My  son,  my  son,  re- 
member a  mother's  love  ;  how  she  has  taught  you  to 
pray,  and  reverence  the  God  of -mercy." 

Seventy-five  long  years  has  been  numbered  with 
the  past ;  scenes,  political  and  national,  warm  and 
exciting,  have  passed  away ;  near  fifty  years  had 
marked  the  resting-place  of  that  Christian  woman, 
when  her  noble  son,  upon  a  bed  of  death,  is  heard 
calling  for  "my  mother,  mother,  mother."  Sweet 
words  for  the  lips  of  one  who  owed  his  greatness  to 
the  maternal  care  of  a  mother's  love. 

Mothers,  do  you  wish  your  sons  to  honor  you  in 
the  busy  conflicts  of  life,  to  be  ornaments  to  society, 
to  call  you  in  the  cold  hour  of  death  ?  Then  act  to 
them  a  mother's  part  —  teach  them  the  way  of 
virtue,  of  morality  and  religion. 

Our  cities  and  country  have  too  many  young  men 
and  boys  destitute  of  the  first  principles  of  virtue, 
who  are  strangers  to  good  breeding,  and  know 
nothing  of  the  means  of  usefulness.  They  have 
been  brought  up  in  idleness,  the  mother  of  vice  ; 
foolish  and  silly  mothers  have  instilled  in  their 
minds  false  ideas  of  what  constitutes  a  gentleman, 
and  they  are  taught  to  look  with  disdain  upon  their 
betters.  Had  such  characters  met  with  a  Franklin 
or  a  Clay,,  when  the  former  was  a  poor,  honest 


106         MY  MOTHER,  MOTHER,  MOTHER. 

apprentice  at  the  printer's  trade,  or  with  the  latter  in 
the  slashes  of  Hanover,  riding  his  father's  horse  to 
mill,  they  would  have  curled  the  lip  of  contempt, 
and  turned  away  from  so  unsightly  an  object.  To 
converse  with  such  is  impossible.  Their  words  are 
as  wind,  their  minds  as  chaff,  and  their  souls  as 
vapor.  They  have  no  moral  nor  intellectual  form 
nor  comeliness.  Their  views,  if  they  have  any,  are 
of  the  lowest  order.  Why  is  this  ?  Is  it  owing  to 
their  natural  incapacity?  No  ;  but  it  is  traceable 
to  a  defective  early  education.  Xo  mother  was 
there  properly  and  duly  qualified  to  take  charge  of 
the  infant  mind.  Instead  of  teaching  them  the 
means  of  usefulness,  that  woman  that  gave  them 
birth  would  tell  them  of  "  their  blood,"  which,  if 
honestly  traced,  had  run  through  the  veins  of  many 
a  culprit  or  penitentiary  convict ;  or  of  their  riches, 
which,  if  truth  were  known,  were  obtained  by  extor- 
tion and  many  other  unlawful  means.  They  grow 
up  with  such  impressions,  and  soon  find  a  disgrace- 
ful end.  Then  the  mother  weeps  over  the  disgrace 
her  son  has  brought  upon  the  memory  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  blames  his  associates  for  it,  not  thinking 
that  she,  and  only  she,  is  to  blame  for  the  whole 
of  it. 
Mothers,  the  destinies  of  your  children  depend 


.SOME    MURMUR    WHEN    THEIR    SKY   IS    CLEAR.      107 

upon  you.  Watch  their  infant  minds,  properly  cul- 
tivate their  moral  sensibilities,  and  walk  yourselves 
in  the  paths  you  would  have  them  to  walk. 


SOME    MURMUR    WHEN    THEIR    SKY    IS 
CLEAR. 


SOME  murmur  when  their  sky  is  clear 

And  wholly  bright  to  view, 
If  one  small  speck  of  dark  appear 

In  their  great  heaven  of  blue  ; 
And  some  with  thankful  love  are  filled, 

If  but  one  streak  of  light, 
One  ray  of  God's  good  mercy,  gild 

The  darkness  of  their  night. 

In  palaces  are  hearts  that  ask, 

In  discontent  and  pride, 
Why  life  is  such  a  dreary  task, 

And  all  good  things  denied  ; 
And  hearts  in  poorest  huts  admire 

How  love  has  in  their  aid 
(Love  that  not  ever  seems  to  tire) 

Such  rich  provision  made. 


108  TEARS. 


TEARS. 

THERE  is  a  sacredness  in  tears.  They  are  not  the 
mark  of  weakness,  but  "of  power.  They  speak  more 
eloquently  than  ten  thousand  tongues.  They  are 
the  messengers  of  overwhelming  grief,  of  deep  con- 
trition, of  unspeakable  love.  If  there  were  wanting 
any  argument  to  prove  that  man  is  immortal,  I 
would  look  for  it  in  the  strong  convulsive  emotion 
of  the  breast  when  the  soul  has  been  deeply  agitated, 
when  the  fountains  of  feeling  are  rising,  and  tears 
are  gushing  forth  in  crystallic  streams.  0,  speak  not 
harshly  of  the  stricken  one,  weeping  in  silenee. 
Break  not  the  solemnity  by  rude  laughter  or  intru- 
sive footsteps.  Despise  not  a  woman's  tears  ;  they 
are  what  makes  her  an  angel.  Scoff  not  if  the 
stern  heart  of  manhood  is  sometimes  melted  to  tears 
of  sympathy  ;  they  are  what  help  to  elevate  him 
above  the  brute.  I  love  to  see  tears  of  affection. 
They  are  painful  tokens,  but  most  holy.  There  is  a 
pleasure  in  tears,  an  awful  pleasure.  If  there  were 
none  on  earth  to  shed  a  tear  for  me,  I  should  be  loath 
to  live  ;  and  if  no  one  might  weep  over  my  grave,  I 
could  never  die  in  peace. 


MY  ANGEL   LOVE.  109 


MY    ANGEL    LOVE. 


I  GAZED  down  life's  dim  labyrinth, 

A  wildering  maze  to  see, 
Crossed  o'er  by  many  a  tangled  clew, 

And  wild  as  wild  could  be  ; 
And  as  I  gazed  in  doubt  and  dread, 

An  Angel  came  to  me. 

I  knew  him  for  a  heavenly  guide, 

I  knew  him  even  then, 
Though  meekly  as  a  child  he  stood 

Among  the  sons  of  men  ; 
By  his  deep  spirit-loveliness 

I  knew  him  even  then. 

And  as  I  leaned  my  weary  head 
Upon  his  proffered  breast, 

And  scanned  the  peril-haunted  wild 
From  out  my  place  of  rest, 

I  wondered  if  the  shining  ones 
Of  Eden  were  more  blessed. 

For  there  was  light  within  my  soul, 
Light  on  my  peaceful  way, 


110  MY   ANGEL    LOVE. 

And  all  around  the  blue  above 
The  clustering  starlight  lay, 

And  easterly  I  saw  upreared 
The  pearly  gates  of  day. 

So,  hand  in  hand,  we  trod  the  wild, 

My  angel  love  and  I, 
His  lifted  wing  all  quivering 

"With  tokens  from  the  sky. 
Strange  my  dull  thought  could  not  divine 

'Twas  lifted  but  to  fly ! 

Again  down  life's  dim  labyrinth 

I  grope  my  way  alone, 
While  wildly  through  the  midnight  sky 

Black,  hurrying  clouds  are  blown, 
And  thickly,  in  my  tangled  path, 

The  sharp,  bare  thorns  are  sown. 

Yet  firm  my  foot,  for  well  I  know 

The  goal  can  not  be  far, 
And  ever,  through  the  rifted  clouds, 

Shines  out  one  steady  star ; 
For  when  my  guide  went  up,  he  left 

The  pearly  gates  ajar. 


©= 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    WOMAN.  Ill 


THE    INFLUENCE    OF    WOMAN. 

IT  is  by  the  promulgation  of  sound  morals  in  the 
community,  and  more  especially  by  the  training  and 
instruction  of  the  young,  that  woman  performs  her 
part  towards  the  preservation  of  a  free  government. 
It  is  generally  admitted  that  public  liberty,  the  per- 
petuity of  a  free  constitution,  rests  on  the  virtue 
and  intelligence  of  the  community  which  enjoys  it. 
How  is  that  virtue  to  be  inspired,  and  how  is  that 
intelligence  to  be  communicated  ?  Bonaparte  once 
asked  Madame  de  Stael  in  what  manner  he  could 
most  promote  the  happiness  of  France.  Her  reply 
is  fall  of  political  wisdom.  She  said,  "  Instruct  the 
mothers  of  the  French  people."  Mothers  are,  in- 
deed, the  affectionate  and  effective  teachers  of  the 
human  race.  The  mother  begins  her  process  of 
training  with  the  infant  in  her  arms.  It  is  she  who 
directs,  so  to  speak,  its  first  mental  and  spiritual 
pulsations.  She  conducts  it  along  the  impressible 
years  of  childhood  and  youth,  and  hopes  to  deliver 
it  to  the  rough  contests  and  tumultuous  scenes  of 


112  '    THE   INFLUENCE    OP   WOMAN. 

life,  armed  by  those  good  principles  her  child  has 
received  from  maternal  care  and  love. 

If  we  draw  within  the  circle  of  our  contemplation 
the  mothers  of  a  civilized  nation,  what  do  we  see  ? 
We  behold  so  many  artificers  working,  not  on  frail 
and  perishable  matter,  but  on  the  immortal  mind, 
moulding  and  fashioning  beings  who  are  to  exist  for- 
ever. We  applaud  the  artist  whose  skill  and  genius 
present  the  mimic  man  upon  the  canvas  ;  we  admire 
and  respect  the  sculptor  who  works  out  that  same 
image  in  enduring  marble  ;  but  how  insignificant  are 
these  achievements,  though  the  highest  and  the  fair- 
est in  all  the  departments  of  art,  in  comparison  with 
the  great  vocation  of  human  mothers  !  They  work, 
not  upon  canvas  that  shall  fail,  or  the  marble  that 
shall  crumble  into  dust,  but  upon  mind,  upon  spirit, 
which  is  to  last  forever,  and  which  is  to  bear,  for 
good  or  evil,  throughout  duration,  the  impress  of  a 
mother's  plastic  hand. 

I  have  already  expressed  the  opinion,  which  all 
allow  to  be  correct,  that  our  security  for  the  dura- 
tion of  the  free  institutions  which  bless  our  country 
depends  upon  the  habits  of  virtue,  and  the  preva- 
lence of  knowledge  and  of  education.  Knowledge 
does  not  comprise  all  which  is  contained  in  the 
larger  term  of  education.  The  feelings  are  to  be 


THE    INFLUENCE    OP    WOMAN.  113 

disciplined ;  the  passions  are  to  be  restrained  ;  the 
true  and  worthy  motives  are  to  be  inspired ;  a  pro- 
found religious  feeling  is  to  be  instilled  and  pure 
morality  inculcated  under  all  circumstances.  All 
this  is  comprised  in  education.  Mothers  who  are 
faithful  to  this  grand  duty  will  tell  their  children 
that  neither  in  political  nor  in  anv,  other  concerns 
of  life  can  man  ever  withdraw  himself  from  the  per- 
petual obligations  of  conscience  and  of  duty;  that  in 
every  act,  whether  public  or  private,  he  incurs  a  just 
responsibility ;  and  that  in  no  condition  is  he  war- 
rated  in  trifling  with  important  rights  and  obliga- 
tions. They  will  impress  upon  their  children  the 
truth,  that  the  exercise  of  the  elective  franchise  is  a 
social  duty,  of  as  solemn  a  nature  as  man  can  be 
called  to  perform ;  that  a  man  may  not  innocently 
trifle  with  his  vote ;  that  every  free  elector  is  a  trus- 
tee, as  well  for  others  as  himself;  and  that  every 
man  and  every  measure  he  supports  has  an  impor- 
tant bearing  on  the  interests  of  others  as  well  as  his 
own.  It  is  in  the  inculcation  of  high  and  pure 
morals,  such  as  these,  that  in  a  free  republic  woman 
performs  her  sacred  duty,  and  fulfils  her  destiny. 


114     THERE  CAME  AN  ANGEL  TO  MY  HOME. 


THERE  CAME  AN  ANGEL  TO  MY  HOME. 


THE  frost  had  spoiled  the  flowers  that  wove 

Their  wreaths  about  my  cot, 
But  could  not  chill  the  bloom  of  love, 

The  flower  that  fadeth  not. 
And  though  the  autumn  winds  had  reft 

The  clustering  vines  apart, 
The  birds  that  nested  there  had  left 

Their  songs  within  my  heart. 
But  ere  the  flowers  returned  to  bloom, 

Know  ye  the  blessing  given  ? 
There  came  an  angel  to  my  home, 

The  fairest  out  of  heaven. 

A  blessed  sprite,  with  wings  concealed, 

And  some  forgotten  name, 
And  eyes  whose  holy  depths  revealed 

The  Eden  whence  she  came. 
Ah  me  !  the  birds  have  never  tried 

Such  songs  as  charmed  my  ear ; 
The  common  sunshine  dimmed  beside 

This  sunshine,  doubly  dear. 
"What  cared  I  then  that  wealth  should  come, 

Or  fame  or  friends  be  given  ? 


Coj= 


THERE  CAME  AN  ANGEL  TO  MY  HOME.     115 

• 

There  dwelt  an  angel  in  my  home, 
The  fairest  out  of  heaven. 

A  tiny,  dimpled  form  of  grace, 

A  footfall  here  and  there, 
And  kisses  gushing  o'er  my  face, 

And  through  the  glowing  air. 
And  now,  when  o'er  the  cottage  floor 

The  common  sunshine  streams, 
The  form  she  wore  is  there  once  more  — 

She  dwelleth  in  my  dreams. 
For  ere  the  second  summer's  bloom 

Its  fragrant  freight  had  given, 
There  went  an  angel  from  my  home, 

An  angel  back  to  heaven. 

Ah  me  !  she  was  an  angel  blest, 

Too  bright  for  earth  to  claim  ; 
A  tomb  of  love  is  in  my  breast, 

O'erwritten  with  her  name  ; 
A  memory  of  exceeding  bliss, 

A  yearning,  crushing  pain  ; 
A  searching  thought  of  happiness, 

That  will  not  come  again. 
Methinks  those  hearts  are  nearer  home 

That  have  such  lessons  given  ; 
She  sees  no  shadows  in  the  tomb 

Who  hath  a  child  in  heaven. 


116  MOTHER. 


MOTHER. 


I  AM  sitting  on  the  door  stone  of  our  loved,  gladdened 

home, 
Watching  for  thy  coming,  mother,  wondering  if  you  will 

not  come,  — 

Every  moment  looking  upward,  if  thy  form  I  may  not  see 
Coming  back  again,  my  mother,  to  thy  loved  ones   and 

to  me. 

Not  for  long  have  we  been  parted,  —  seven  suns  not  yet 

have  set,  — 
But  the  hours  trail  slowly  onward,  when  their  wings  with 

tears  are  wet ; 
And  the  life   must  not  be   measured  by  its  weeks,  or 

months,  or  years, 
But  by  sorrow  and  by  gladness,  by  its  happiness  or  tears. 

Somewhere  in  this  glorious   sunshine,  thou  art  on  thy 

homeward  way, 

In  thy  heart  a  pleasure  thrilling,  in  thine  eye  a  loving  ray; 
Thou  wilt  joy  to  meet  us,  mother,  much  as  we  to  meet 

with  thee, 
And  I  know  you  must  be  coming  back  to-day,  to  home 

and  me. 


<§> 


MOTHER.  117 


Not  for  long  have  we  been  parted ;  has  that  little  while 

been  bright  ? 
Did  not  Pleasure  fold  around  thee  all  her  shining  robes 

of  light  ? 
If  she  came  not  to  thy  spirit,  if  she  lightened  not  thy 

brow, 
Then  she  ne'er  should  bless  another,  never  worthier  were 

than  thou. 

Thou  shouldst  never  dwell  with  Sorrow,  thou  who  hast 

been  kind  and  good 
To  the  lone  and  friendless  orphan,  in  this  cold  world's 

solitude ; 
Blessings    countless,  blessings  brightest,  on  thy  pathway 

should  be  shed, 
Thou  whose  hand  hath  lain  in  blessings  on  the  helpless 

orphan's  head. 

Though  I  know  of  all  earth's  forms  least  I  do  deserve 

thy  love, 
Yet  that  same   dear   love   I  beg  for  every  other  good 

above ; 
And  the  swiftest  shaft  of  sorrow  which  can   pierce  my 

bleeding  heart 
Is,  that  I  should  grieve  such  goodness,  or  should  act  the 

ingrate's  part. 

I  am  sitting  on  the  door  step,  watching,  mother,  still  for 

thee, 
Peering  through  the  glorious  sunshine,  if  thy  form  I  may 

not  see ; 


118  BE   NOT    DISHEARTENED. 

Thinking  o'er  a  thousand  fancies  I  will  whisper  in  thine 

ear, 
Which  no  ear  as  thine,  my  mother,  half  so  patiently  would 

hear. 


BE    NOT    DISHEARTENED. 


A  GENIAL  moment  oft  has  given 

What  years  of  toil  and  pain, 
Of  long,  industrious  toil,  have  striven 

To  win,  and  all  in  vain. 

Yet  count  not,  when  thine  end  is  won, 

That  labor  merely  lost ; 
Nor  say  it  had  been  wiser  done 

To  spare  the  painful  cost. 

When  heaped  upon  the  altar  lie 

All  things  to  feed  the  fire, 
One  spark  alighting  from  on  high, 

The  flames  at  once  aspire. 

But  those  sweet  gums  and  fragrant  woods, 

Its  rich  material  rare, 
By  tedious  quest  o'er  lands  and  floods 
Had  first  been  gathered  there. 


DEATH    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD    TREASURE.  119 


DEATH  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD  TREASURE. 


IT  is  well  with  the  child,  because  she  has  left  a 
world  of  suffering  antl  entered  a  world  of  boundless 
enjoyment.  This  world  is  marked  by  suffering. 
Wherever  you  go  you  find  misery  and  woe.  The 
good  and  the  bad,  the  virtuous  and  the  vile,  are 
alike  involved  in  distress  and  sorrow.  It  is  a  part 
of  life  ;  it  belongs  to  man,  and  is  necessary  to  his 
discipline.  It  is  not  one  stray  thread  in  the  fabric 
of  time,  winding  unseen  amid  the  beautiful  figures 
on  the  tapestry  of  existence,  but  is  interwoven  with 
every  day's  toils  and  every  night's  dreams.  Man  is 
born  to  it  as  he  is  born  to  the  sunlight  and  to  the 
beauties  of  nature.  Its  elements  are  in  him  and  all 
around  him,  and  the  very  breath  he  draws  is  choked 
with  the  inhalations  of  the  pervading  atmosphere. 
Every  organ  of  the  physical  nature  is  an  inlet  of 
pain  as  well  as  pleasure  ;  every  nerve  is  the  avenue 
of  intense  and  intolerable  anguish,  a  railroad  of  fire 
to  bear  in  upon  the  soul  the  sharp  distress,  a  tele- 
(P)  •  ^ 


120  DEATH    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD    TREASURE. 

graphic  wire  communicating  between  the  outward 
senses  and  the  living  spirit,  over  which  passes  an- 
guish beyond  endurance.  The  history  of  man  is  a 
history  of  shipwrecks,  disasters,  accidents,  perils, 
spasms,  plagues,  graves.  The  body  is  a  most  perfect 
organism,  exquisite  in  all  its  parts,  beautiful  beyond 
description ;  but  every  part  is  susceptible  to  the 
keenest  anguish  as  well  as  to  the  highest  enjoyment. 
The  eye  looks  out  upon  the  glories  of  nature,  de- 
lights in  views  of  surpassing  beauty  ;  but  it  also 
carries  us  to  the  sad  scenes  of  crime  and  wrong, 
reflects  upon  the  interior  life  all  that  is  malignant, 
selfish,  defiled,  and  cursed  of  earth.  It  measures  an 
angel's  joys  —  it  also  takes  in  at  a  single  glance  a 
devil's  torment.  The  ear  bears  into  the  temple  of 
the  heart  the  melodious  sounds  without  —  the  songs 
of  birds,  the  music  of  the  cathedral,  the  harmony  of 
prayer,  the  eloquence  of  domestic  life  and  love.  It 
also  swells  with  the  awful  voice  of  profanity,  the 
sharp,  shrill  cry  of  distress,  the  wail  of  family  dis- 
cord, the  dying  groans  of  our  friends,  and  all  that 
telleth  of  woe  and  suffering.  The  taste,  the  smell, 
the  touch,  all  have  avenues  of  pleasure,  and  all  com- 
municate the  fiercest  pain. 

Beyond  man,  every  thing  is  fitted  to  produce  sor- 
row as  well  as  joy.     Yon  fire,  —  has  it  not  consumed 

A, 


DEATH    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD    TREASURE.  121 

your  dwelling,  destroyed  your  property,  and  blis- 
tered and  blackened  your  own  body  ?  Yon  river, 
moving  your  spindles,  floating  your  commerce, — 
has  it  not  ingulfed  your  friends,  or  swept  away 
the  lifeless  bodies  of  your  children  ?  Yon  summer 
gale,  laden  with  the  fragrance  of  roses  and  honey- 
suckle, —  has  it  not  come  to  you  or  yours  laden 
with  contagious  disease,  or  sweeping  into  your 
household  the  terrible  pestilence  ?  Yon  heaven, 
that  smiles  above  your  head,  —  has  it  not  sent  its 
hail  and  snow,  chilling  your  limbs,  and  consigning 
you  to  disease  ? 

Society,  designed  by  God  to  bless-,  framed  together 
for  high  and  noble  purposes,  —  has  it  not  its  evils  ? 
Whence  come  wars  and  fightings  among  you  ? 
What  mean  the  constant  and  terrible  convulsions  of 
social  life  ?  They  all  speak  one  language,  and  con- 
firm the  declaration  of  the  inspired  penman,  "  Man 
is  born  unto  trouble."  Reason,  conscience,  the 
senses,  nature,  society  —  all  things  emit  in  turn 
some  jets  of  anguish,  which  fall  like  lava  upon  the 
burning,  suffering  heart  of  those  who  trace  their 
origin  to  her  who,  guilty  and  detected,  was  exiled 
from  the  bowers  of  Eden  to  a  world  of  weeping, 
tears,  and  death.  This  conviction  that  suffering  is  a 
part  of  human  existence  cannot  be  evaded.  As  Dr. 


122  DEATH    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD    TREASURE. 

Charming  beautifully  remarks,  "  Suffering  is  the 
chief  burden  of  history.  It  is  the  solemn  theme  of 
one  of  the  highest  departments  of  literature  —  the 
tragic  drama.  It  gives  to  fictions  their  deep  inter- 
est. It  wails  through  much  of  our  poetry.  A  large 
part  of  human  vocations  are  intended  to  shut  up 
some  of  its  avenues.  It  has  left  its  traces  on  every 
human  countenance  over  which  years  have  passed. 
It  is  not  to  a  very  few  the  most  vivid  recollection 
of  life." 

Suffering,  then,  being  a  part  of  human  life,  inter- 
woven with  every  year  of  its  progress,  and  pre- 
sented by  the  evolution  of  its  epochs,  it  follows  that 
one  who  escapes  from  life  early  escapes  from  a  deep, 
surging  ocean  of  calamities  —  passes  away  from  a 
world  where  heaven  and  earth  combine  to  enforce 
the  penalty  of  sin.  The  early  death  of  your  child 
and  mine  is  not  a  calamity.  The  little  one  that  we 
loved  so  tenderly  is  taken  from  all  suffering  to  a 
world  of  endless  pleasure.  In  infinite  love  God 
stooped  down  and  took  the  spirit  up  to  dwell  with 
him,  where  there  is  no  night,  no  mourning,  no  death. 
While  the  child  lived,  our  hearts  were  torn  with  the 
anguish  we  saw  ;  our  ears  tingled  with  the  groans 
we  heard  ;  day  and  night  we  wept  for  sorrows  we 
could  not  allay,  and  pains  we  could  not  relieve. 


DEATH    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD    TREASURE.  123 

But  the  end  of  sufferings  has  come,  and  the  child  is 
received  to  a  world  where  sorrow  is  unknown.  She 
did  not  live  to  sing  with  the  licentious  poet,  — 

"  My  days  are  as  the  yellow  leaf ; 
The  flowers  and  fruit  of  love  are  gone ; 
The  worm,  the  canker,  and  the  grief 
Are  mine  alone." 

But  before  sin  had  stamped  its  seal  upon  the  heart, 
or  crime  had  discolored  the  pages  of  the  daily  life, 
she  went  to  God. 

"  She  died  before  her  infant  soul 

Had  ever  burned  with  wrong  desires, 
Had  ever  spurned  at  Heaven's  control, 
Or  ever  quenched  its  sacred  fires." 

She  looked  upon  the  world,  and  saw  its  vanity  ;  she 
tried  life,  and  found  it  full  of  sorrow,  and,  smiling, 
turned  away.  And  0,  what  parent  would  chain  his 
child  to  this  dungeon  world,  to  this  night-shadowed 
land,  when  angels  are  beckoning,  when  heavenly 
doors  are  opened,  when  Christ  himself  stands  ready 
to  lead  the  little  trembling  pilgrim  in  ?  I  know  what 
would  have  been  the  last  words  of  the  child,  could 
her  infant  lips  have  spoken  ;  I  know  with  what 
thrilling  accents  she  would  have  said,  as  she  unwound 
herself  from  the  tender  arms  that  enfolded  her, 
"  Let  me  go." 


124  DEATH    OF   A   HOUSEHOLD   TREASURE. 

"  Father !  the  pearly  gates  unfold, 
The  sapphire  walls,  the  streets  of  gold; 

Are  bursting  on  my  sight ; 
The  angel  bands  come  singing  down, 
And  one  has  got  my  starry  crown. 

And  one  my  robe  of  white. 

"  Poising  above  on  silvery  wing, 
They're  waiting  my  freed  soul  to  bring 

To  its  new  home  above ; 
There,  folded  to  my  Savior's  breast, 
How  sweet,  how  full  will  be  my  rest 
Beneath  his  eye  of  love ! 

"  Thou  wouldst  not  hold  me  longer  here, 
Though  well  I  know  that  many  a  tear 

For  my  dear  sake  will  flow. 
The  morning  dawns  upon  my  sight ; 
How  long,  how  dark  has  been  the  night ! 
Father !  I  go,  I  go." 

It  is  well  with  the  child  also,  because  she  has  left 
a  world  of  sin,  and  entered  a  world  of  perfect  holi- 
ness. Sin  is  universal.  It  is  a  product  of  all 
climes,  an  inhabitant  of  all  lands,  and  has  been 
familiar  with  all  ages.  It  is  entailed  upon  us ;  it 
comes  in  a  line  of  hereditary  succession  from  sire  to 
son,  and  its  monuments  are  every  where.  That 
dark,  gloomy  prison  there,  with  its  iron  doors,  its 
grated  windows,  and  its  sentineled  towers,  is  a  mon- 


DEATH    OF    A    HOUSEHOLD    TREASURE.  125 


ument  of  sin.     That  insane  asylum,  with  its  crowd 
of  idiots  and  its  company  of  raving  maniacs  ;  —  that 
blind  asylum,  with  its  unfortunate  beings,  straining 
their  sightless  eyes  to  catch  some  glimpse  of  the 
beautiful  objects   of  nature  ;  —  the  deaf  and  dumb 
asylum,  where  are  those  who  never  heard  the  ripple 
of  the  lake,  the  murmur  of  the  breeze,  the  gush  of 
mellow  music  from  the  young  birds,  the  chanting  of 
a  company  of  choristers  ;  who  never  spake  one  word 
of  love  or  hate  ;  who  never  sang  or  prayed  ;  who 
never  lisped  the  name  of  wife  or  child,  Christ  or 
God  ;  —  that  hospital,  with  its  wards  of  cripples,  its 
rooms  of  fevered  ones,  its  cells  of  mad  ones,  its 
halls  of  mourning  ones,  —  are  all  monuments  of  sin. 
The  plain,  covered  with  soldiers  rushing  into  deadly 
battle  ;  the  gibbet  on  the  prison  wall,  on  which 
dangles  a  human  being ;  the  melancholy  funeral  of 
the  suicide,  —  all  are  trophies  of  sin.    The  drunkard 
reeling  to  his  fall ;  the  criminal  going  chained  to 
his  labor  ;  the  murderer  skulking  at  night  along  the 
deserted  street,  —  are  all  evidences  of  sin.     Sin  has 
left  its  tracks  on  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  and  in 
the  beds  of  rivers,  on  the  sands  of  the  desert,  and 
by  the  wayside.      The  picture  which  Pollok  drew 
of  the  fearful  prevalence  of  crime  has  not  yet  ceased 
to  be  true ;  the  dark,  dark  interweaving  of  crime 


126  DEATH    OF   A   HOUSEHOLD    TREASURE. 

which  he  saw  and  deplored,  we  only  need  a  full 
view  of  life  to  behold  :  — 

"  Satan  raged  loose,  Sin  had  her  will,  and  Death 
Enough.    Blood  trod  upon  the  heels  of  Blood ; 
Revenge,  in  desperate  mood,  at  midnight  met 
Revenge.    War  brayed  to  War,  Deceit  deceived 
Deceit.    Lie  cheated  Lie,  and  Treachery 
Mined  under  Treachery  ;  and  Perjury 
Swore  back  on  Perjury  ;  and  Blasphemy 
Arose  with  hideous  Blasphemy,  and  curse 
Loud  answering  curse ;  and  drunkard  stumbling  fell 
O'er  drunkard  fallen  ;  and  husband  husband  met 
Returning  from  each  other's  bed  denied  ; 
Thief  stole  from  thief;  and  robber  on  the  way 
Knocked  robber  down ;  and  Lewdness,  Violence, 
And  Hate  met  Lewdness,  Violence,  and  Hate." 

Now,  the  child  who  is  introduced  into  such  a 
world  walks  amid  continual  dangers,  and  though 
we  fondly  hope  that  our  children  will  escape  the 
dreadful  influences  of  sin,  we  do  not  know.  Who 
fills  the  prisons  ?  Who  supplies  candidates  for  gib- 
bets ?  Who  furnishes  the  suicides?  Who  swells 
the  mighty  tide  of  sorrow  and  vice?  The  lost, 
fallen  ones  of  earth  were  somebody's  children! 
They  had  mothers  who  nursed  them  tenderly,  and 
fathers  who  counselled  them  wisely,  and  hearts  that 
loved  them  fondly.  We  recoil  from  the  idea  that 


DEATH    OF   A   HOUSEHOLD    TREASURE.-  127 

our  children  will  ever  become  lost  and  degraded. 
The  bare  suggestion  seems  an  insult  to  the  heart  of 
parental  love,  and  none  believe  it  of  their  own. 
But  where  is  the  safeguard  ?  Who  will  give  me  a 
pledge  that  my  son  will  not  bring  my  hairs  with 
sorrow  to  the  grave  ?  Who  can  tell  me  that  my 
daughter,  had  she  lived,  would  not  have  wrung  my 
heart  with  anguish,  and  made  me  curse  the  hour 
wherein  she  was  born  ? 

There  was  an  angel  once  who  stood  before  God. 
Age  after  age  he  swept  the  harpstrings,  and  cheru- 
bim and  seraphim  came  from  the  uttermost  heaven 
to  hear  his  song,  as  it  rolled  out,  sweeter  and  purer 
than  all  the  rest.  But  sin  entered  that  angel  heart ; 
he  fell ;  his  shriek  echoed  through  the  skies,  and 
gave  fearful  evidence  that  all  was  lost.  And  now, 
scarred  and  blackened,  he  liveth  only  to  destroy. 
Good  men  fly  from  him ;  angels  turn  their  faces 
from  him  as  they  meet  him  in  the  air,  and  God  de- 
nounces him  as  his  most  terrible  foe.  So  the  cherub 
things  that  lie  cradled  on  your  breast  sometimes 
change  to  fiends  of  vengeance  and  despair. 

But  if  the  child  die  in  early  life,  this  life  of  sin  is 
escaped  entirely ;  these  pitfalls  are  all  avoided. 
The  child  is  rendered  to  God  ;  the  body  lies  in  the 
ground,  and  the  spirit  ascends  to  heaven.  0,  there 


128 


it  is  safe  from  temptations  and  sins.  Had  it  re- 
mained here  we  know  not  what  it  might  have  been  ; 
but  now  we  know  what  it  will  forever  be.  No  tear 
can  dim  that  angel  eye  ;  no  grief  can  stain  that 
angel  cheek ;  no  discord  can  mar  that  angel  song. 
The  dark  wing  of  sin  will  not  hang  over  that  spirit, 
but  in  the  full,  broad  blaze  of  an  eternal  day  it  will 
forever  live. 

It  is  well  with  the  child !  We  have  had  a  sor- 
rowful parting.  Tears  have  been  freely  shed,  and 
mourning  has  been  put  on ;  but  it  is  well  with  the 
child. 

"  'Tis  better  far  in  childhood's 

Friendless  years,  ere  sorrows  come  and  cares  of  earth 
Enslave  us,  sweetly  to  fall  asleep  and 
Wake  in  heaven." 

It  must  be  to  the  pious  parent  a  source  of  holy 
satisfaction  that  he  has  a  child  safe  in  glory.  Day 
after  day,  as  he  watches  the  struggle  with  death,  he 
sees  in  the  light  of  his  exalted  faith  the  effort  of  the 
soul  to  break  the  chrysalis  of  time  and  soar  away. 
And  when  the  contest  is  over,  and  the  little  hands 
are  folded  upon  the  tender  breast,  he  knows  that 
his  child  is  with  the  holy  angels.  He  seems  to  stand 
on  the  shore  of  a  river,  on  the  other  side  of  which 
is  the  city  of  God,  of  whose  beautiful  palaces  he 


Co)-  = 

WHEN   I   AM   OLD.  129 

now  and  then  catches  a  glimpse,  and  whose  music 
now  and  then  steals  deliriously  upon  his  senses. 

"  Time  is  a  river  deep  and  wide, 

And  while  along  its  banks  we  stray, 
We  see  our  loved  ones  o'er  its  tide 
Sail  from  our  sight  away,  away. 
Where  are  they  sped  —  they  who  return 

No  more  to  glad  our  longing  eyes  ? 
They've  passed  from  life's  contracted  bourn 
To  land  unseen,  unknown,  that  lies 

Beyond  the  river." 


WHEN   I   AM   OLD. 


WHEN  I  am  old  —  and  O,  how  soon 
Will  life's  sweet  morning  yield  to  noon, 
And  noon's  broad,  fervid,  earnest  light 
Be  shrouded  in  the  solemn  night ; 
Till  like  a  story  well  nigh  told 
Will  seem  my  life  —  when  I  am  old. 

When  I  am  old  —  this  breezy  earth 
WiU  lose  for  me  its  voice  of  mirth; 
The  streams  will  have  an  under  tone 
Of  sadness,  not  by  right  their  own  ; 
And  spring's  sweet  power  in  vain  unfold 
In  rosy  charms  —  when  I  am  old. 

@ 


130  POP,   GOES   THE   QUESTION. 


POP,  GOES   THE  QUESTION 


LIST  to  me,  sweet  maiden,  pray ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question ! 
Will  you  marry  me,  yea  or  nay  ? 

Pop,  goes  the  question ! 
I've  no  time  to  plead  or  sigh, 
No  patience  to  wait  for  by  and  by ; 
Snare  me  now,  I'm  sure  to  fly ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 

«  Ask  papa,"  O,  fiddle  de  dee ! 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 
Fathers  and  lovers  can  never  agree  ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 
He  can't  tell  what  I  want  to  know, 
Whether  you  love  me,  sweet,  or  no ; 
To  ask  him  would  be  very  slow  ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 

I  think  we'd  make  such  a  charming  pair ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 
For  I'm  good  looking,  and  you're  very  fair  ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 

Q  @ 


131 


We'll  travel  life's  road  in  a  gallant  style, 
And  you  shall  drive  every  other  mile, 
O,  if  it  pleases  you,  all  the  while ; 
Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 

If  we  don't  have  an  enchanting  time, 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 
I'm  sure  it  will  be  no  fault  of  mine ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 
To  be  sure,  my  funds  make  a  feeble  show  ; 
But  love  is  a  nourishing  food,  you  know, 
And  cottages  rent  uncommonly  low  ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 

Then  answer  me  quickly,  darling,  pray  ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 
"Will  you  marry  me,  yea  or  nay  ? 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 
I've  no  time  to  plead  or  sigh, 
No  patience  to  wait  for  by  and  by ; 
Snare  me  now,  or  I'm  going  to  fly ; 

Pop,  goes  the  question  ! 


132  THE    WHOLE    FAMILY. 


THE   WHOLE   FAMILY. 


PHILOSOPHY  is  rarely  found.  The  most  perfect 
sample  I  ever  met  was  an  old  woman,  who  was 
apparently  the  poorest  and  the  most  forlorn  of  the 
human  species  —  so  true  is  the  maxim  which  all  pro- 
fess to  believe,  and  none  act  upon  invariably,  viz. , 
"  that  happiness  does  not  depend  upon  outward 
circumstances."  The  wise  woman  to  whom  I  have 
alluded  walks  to  Boston,  a  distance  of  twenty  or 
thirty  miles,  to  sell  a  bag  of  brown  thread  and 
stockings,  and  then  patiently  walks  back  again  with 
her  little  gains.  Her  dress,  though  tidy,  is  a  col- 
lection of  "  shreds  and  patches,"  coarse  in  the 
extreme. 

"  "Why  don't  you  come  down  in  a  wagon  ?  "  said 
I,  when  I  observed  that  she  was  wearied  with  her 
long  journey. 

"  We  hain't  got  any  horse,"  she  replied ;  "  the 
neighbors  are  very  kind  to  me,  but  they  can't  spare 
theirn,  and  it  would  cost  as  much  to  hire  one  as  all 
my  thread  would  come  to." 


THE    WHOLE   FAMILY.  133 

"You  have  a  husband  —  don't  he  do  any  thing 
for  you?" 

"  He  is  a  good  man  ;  he  does  all  he  can,  but  he's 
a  cripple  and  an  invalid.  He  reels  my  yarn  and 
mends  the  children's  shoes.  He  is  as  kind  a  hus- 
band as  a  woman  need  to  have." 

"  But  his  being  a  cripple  is  a  heavy  misfortune  to 
you,"  said  I. 

"  "Why,  ma'am,  I  don't  look  upon  it  in  that  light," 
replied  the  thread  woman.  "  I  consider  that  I  have 
a  great  reason  to  be  thankful  that  he  never  took  to 
any  bad  habits." 

"  How  many  children  have  you  ?  " 

"  Six  sons  and  five  daughters,  ma'am." 

"  Six  sons  and  five  daughters  1  Why,  what  a 
family  for  a  poor  woman  to  support ! " 

''  It  is  a  family,  ma'am  ;  but  there  ain't  one  of  'em 
I'd  be  willing  to  lose.  They  are  all  as  healthy  chil- 
dren as  need  to  be,  —  all  willing  to  work,  and  all 
clever  to  me.  Even  the  smallest  boy,  when  he  gets 
a  cent  now  and  then  for  doing  an  errand,  will  be 
always  sure  to  bring  it  to  me." 

"  Do  your  daughters  spin  your  thread  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  as  soon  as  they  are  big  enough  they 
go  out  to  service,  as  I  don't  want  to  keep  them 
always  delving  for  me  ;  they  are  always  willing  to 

=  @ 


134  A   SONG. 

give  me  what  they  can  ;  but  it's  right  and  fair  that 
they  should  do  a  little  for  themselves.  I  do  all  my 
spinning  after  all  the  folks  are  gone  to  bed." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  would  be  better  off  if  you 
had  no  one  but  yourself  to  provide  for  ?  " 

"  Why,  no,  ma'am,  I  don't.  If  I  had  not  been 
married,  I  should  always  have  to  work  as  hard  as  I 
could  ;  and  now  I  can't  do  no  more  than  that.  My 
children  are  always  a  great  comfort  to  me,  and  I 
look  forward  to  the  time  when  they  will  do  as  much 
for  me  as  I  have  always  done  for  them." 

Here  was  true  philosophy!  I  learned  a  lesson 
from  that  poor  woman  which  I  shall  not  soon  forget. 


A    SONG. 


COME  into  the  garden,  Maud ; 

For  the  black  bat,  Night,  has  flown  : 
Come  into  the  garden,  Maud  ; 

I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone  ; 
And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 

And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 


@  = 

I   AM   FORGOTTEN    KOW.  135 


I   AM   FORGOTTEN   NOW. 


THE  autumn  leaves  are  perishing, 

The  winter  winds  have  come 
To  chill  the  waves  where  zephyr's  wings 

Had  gathered  its  perfume  ; 
The  autumn  flowers  lie  pale  and  dead ; 

No  dew  can  bid  them  glow ; 
Like  them,  my  hopes  have  wildly  fled  — 

I  am  forgotten  now. 

Thou  mo  vest  in  the  lighted  hall, 

Where  beauty's  lights  are  poured, 
And  there,  the  brightest  of  them  all, 

Art  cherished  and  adored  ; 
Thou  sweepest  through  the  mazy  dance, 

And  listest  love  tones  low ; 
Ah,  by  that  gentle  smile  and  glance  — 

I  am  forgotten  now. 

Why  should  I  ask  a  heart  like  thine 

A  darkened  shade  to  wear  ? 
It  is  too  beautiful  a  shrine 

To  cloud  with  hues  of  care  : 


136  DON'T  LOOK  ON  THE  DARK  SIDE. 

Float  on,  float  on  in  thy  sweet  dream  ; 

It  suits  thy  fair  young  brow ; 
I  read  in  thy  young  beauty's  gleam  — 

I  am  forgotten  now. 


DON'T    LOOK   ON   THE    DARK    SIDE, 


DON'T  look  on  the  dark  side  !     Turn  over  the  leaf; 

See  —  a  beautiful  picture  awaits  you  ; 
Why  study  with  care  the  pale  outline  of  grief 

When  life-tinted  hope  may  elate  you  ? 

Don't  look  on  the  dark  side  !     Your  sadness  and  gloom 
Will  spread  like  a  pestilence  round  you  ; 

Such  moping  is  selfish  ;  give  cheerfulness  room  ; 
Let  the  balm  of  its  atmosphere  bound  you. 

Don't  look  on  the  dark  side  !     There's  brightness  enough 

In  the  world,  if  you  only  view  it ; 
To  fret  is  ungrateful ;  your  way  may  be  rough, 

But  complaining  with  briers  will  strew  it. 

Don't  look  on  the  dark  side !     Or,  if  'tis  all  dark, 

If  night  and  a  storm  both  are  given, 
Remember,  though  clouds  veil  each  luminous  spark, 
*  The  stars  are  yet  shining  in  heaven. 


THE    TRUE    WIFE.  137 


THE   TRUE   WIFE. 


SHE  is  no  true  wife  who  sustains  not  her  husband 
in  the  day  of  calamity  ;  who  is  not,  when  the  world's 
great  frown  makes  the  heart  chill  with  anguish,  his 
guardian  angel,  growing  brighter  and  more  beauti- 
ful as  misfortunes  crowd  along  his  path.  Then  is 
the  time  for  trial  of  her  gentleness ;  then  is  the 
time  for  testing  whether  the  sweetness  of  her  temper 
beams  only  with  the  transient  light,  or,  like  the 
steady  glory  of  the  morning  star,  shines  as  brightly 
under  the  clouds.  Has  she  smiles  just  as  charming  ? 
Does  she  say,  "  Affliction  cannot  touch  our  purity, 
and  should  not  quench  our  love  ?  "  Does  she  try,  by 
happy  little  inventions,  to  lift  from  his  sensitive 
spirit  the  burden  of  thought. 

There  are  wives  —  no  !  there  are  beings,  who, 
when  the  dark  hours  come,  fall  to  repining  and 
upbraiding,  —  thus  adding  to  outside  anxiety  the 
harrowing  scenes  of  domestic  strife,  —  as  if  tlje 
blame  in  the  world  would  make  one  hair  white  or 

© -  (o) 


138  THE    TRUE    WIFE. 


black,  or  change  the  decree  gone  forth.  Such  know 
not  that  our  darkness  is  heaven's  light  —  our  trials 
are  but  steps  in  a  golden  ladder,  by  which,  if  we 
rightly  ascend,  we  may  at  last  gain  that  eternal 
light,  and  bathe  forever  in  its  fulness  and  beauty. 

"Is  that  all?"  and  the  gentle  face  of  the  wife 
beamed  with  joy.  Her  husband  had  been  on  the 
verge  of  distraction  ;  all  his  earthly  possessions 
were  gone,  and  he  feared  the  result  of  her  knowl- 
edge, she  had  been  so  tenderly  cared  for  all  her 
life.  But,  says  Irving's  beautiful  story,  "a  friend 
advised  him  to  give  not  sleep  to  his  eyes,  nor  slum- 
ber to  his  eyelids,  until  he  had  unfolded  to  her  all 
his  hapless  case." 

And  that  was  her  answer,  with  the  smile  of  an 
angel  —  '  Is  that  all  ?  I  feared  by  your  sadness  it 
was  worse.  Let  these  things  be  taken  —  all  this 
splendor,  let  it  go.  I  care  not  for  it  ;  I  only  care 
for  my  husband's  love  and  confidence.  You  shall 
forget  in  my  affection  that  you  were  ever  in  pros- 
perity ;  only  still  love  me,  and  I  will  aid  you  to  bear 
these  little  reverses  with  cheerfulness." 

Still  love  her  !  Her  a  man  must  reverence,  ay,  and 
liken  her  to  the  very  angels,  for  such  a  woman  is  a 
living  revelation  of  heaven. 


BROTHER,    COME   HOME.  139 


BROTHER,    COME   HOME. 


COME  home : 

Would  I  could  send  my  spirit  o'er  the  deep  ! 
Would  I  could  wing  it  like  a  bird  to  thee, 
To  commune  with  thy  thoughts,  to  fill  thy  sleep 
With  these  unvarying  words  of  melody :  — 
Brother,  come  home ! 

Come  home : 
Come  to  the  hearts  that  love  thee,  to  the  eyes 

That  beam  in  brightness  but  to  gladden  thine ; 
Come  where  fond  thoughts  like  holiest  incense  rise, 
Where  cherished  memory  rears  her  altar  shrine  :  — 
Brother,  come  home ! 

Come  home : 

Come  to  the  hearthstone  of  thine  earlier  days  ; 
Come  to  the  ark,  like  the  o'erwearied  dove ; 
Come  with  the  sunlight  of  thine  heart's  warm  rays ; 
Come  to  the  fireside  circle  of  thy  love  :  — 
Brother,  come  home ! 

(o)  (2) 


140  BROTHER,    COME    HOME. 

Come  home : 
It  is  not  home  without  thee  ;  the  lone  seat 

Is  still  unclaimed,  where  thou  wert  wont  to  be ; 
In  every  echo  of  returning  feet 

In  vain  we  list  for  what  should  herald  thee  :  — 
Brother,  come  home ! 

Come  home  : 
We've  nursed  for  thee  the  sunny  buds  of  spring ; 

Watched  every  germ  a  full  blown  floweret  near  ; 
Saw  o'er  their  bloom  the  chilly  winter  bring 
Its  icy  garlands,  and  thou  art  not  here  :  — 
Brother,  come  home ! 

Come  home  : 

Would  I  could  send  my  spirit  o'er  the  deep ; 
Would  I  could  wing  it  like  a  bird  to  thee ; 
To  commune  with  thy  thoughts,  to  fill  thy  sleep 
•       With  these  unvarying  words  of  melody :  — 
Brother,  co^me  home  ! 


@ 

THE    WAYSIDE.  141 


THE   WAYSIDE. 

I'M  almost  home.  Dear  native  home,  —  in  this 
quiet  little  village,  nestled  down  closely  by  this 
sweet  murmuring  river,  —  how  many  sweet  memo- 
ries cling  to  thee !  how  beautiful  thou  art,  surround- 
ed by  these  proud  hills  and  fine  groves,  scattered 
among  which  are  neat  cottages,  green  fields,  and 
flourishing  gardens  1  —  the  delight  of  the  sober  farmer 
and  his  prudent,  loving  wife.  Where  else  does  the 
glorious  sun  look  down  so  cheerfully  ?  How  like  a 
mantle  of  gold  is  his  light  thrown  over  these  distant 
hills !  and  with  what  beauty  does  he  tinge  the  heads 
of  those  stately  oaks,  silver  maples,  and  proud  pines, 
as  they  bow  a  welcome  to  the  morning !  Nor  has  he 
forgotten  to  gild  the  spire  of  the  dear  old  church, 
with  which  are  connected  sweet  and  sad  recollec- 
tions. There  I  received  instructions  from  the  sacred 
Scriptures,  and  heard  holy  words  from  the  man  of 
God,  never  to  be  forgotten.  But  where  are  those 
who  listened  with  me  ?  I  must  go  read  the  inscrip- 


142  THE    WAYSIDE. 


tions  on  those  plain  monuments  and  marble  slabs 
within  the  churchyard,  (sacred  place ! )  within  whose 
bosom  is  locked  the  precious  dust  of  loved  ones. 
Here,  in  this  corner,  is  my  dear  grandfather,  the 
old  man  with  silver  hair,  whose  face  shone  so  bright- 
ly when  he  talked  of  heaven  and  rest  for  the  weary. 
And  here,  beside  him,  is  one  who  shared  his  sunny 
days  and  dreary  hours  through  many  a  year,  but, 
weary  of  life,  laid  down  to  rest  before  him.  Here 
is  little  Freddie's  grave,  and  there  his  dear  Alice,  too. 
0  Death,  thou  hast  sent  gloom  into  many  a  happy 
heart ;  ay,  and  taken  those  who  once  made  happy 
and  bright  a  home  in  this  little  cottage.  Dear  old 
home  —  every  thing  around  has  a  peculiar  beauty  to 
me ;  and  each  tells  of  joyous  days  and  sunny  hours. 
The  old  maple  still  stands  firm,  though  the  fierce 
winds  of  many  a  winter  have  beat  upon  it ;  and  the 
elm  spreads  out  his  arms  as  lovingly  as  when  I 
played  beneath  its  shade  with  a  merry  group.  I  see 
them  now,  those  honest,  rosy  faces ;  and  "  would  I 
were  a  child  again."  Our  young  hearts  had  never 
known  sorrow  then,  the  bitter  tears  Of  disappoint- 
ment had  never  dimmed  our  eyes,  nor  had  our  ears 
ever  heard  the  last  adieu  of  a  dear  sister,  a  fond 
father,  and  a  tender  mother.  The  future  was  then 
one  long,  bright,  happy  day  of  gladness  and  mirth. 

=@ 


YOU   REMEMBER    IT DON'T   YOU?  143 

Though  sad  changes,  dark  days,  and  gloomy  scenes 
from  the  past  ever  come  before  me,  here,  still,  it's  a 
loved  spot,  a  sacred  place  ;  for  here  I  first  heard  the 
story  of  God  and  heaven,  learned  my  first  lesson  of 
gentleness  and  forbearance,  and  was  first  taught  to 
lisp  my  wants  in  the  ear  of  Him  who  giveth  every 
good. 


YOU   REMEMBER   IT -DON'T   YOU? 


You  remember  the  time  when  I  first  sought  your  home, 
When  a  smile,  not  a  word,  was  the  summons  to  come, 
"When  you  called  me  a  friend,  till  you  found,  with  surprise, 
That  our  friendship  turned  out  to  be  love  in  disguise. 
You  remember  it  —  don't  you  ? 
You  will  think  of  it  —  won't  you  ? 
Yes,  yes,  of  all  this  the  remembrance  wih1  last 
Long  after  the  present  fades  into  the  past. 

You  remember  the  grief  that  grew  lighter  when  shared ; 
With  the  bliss,  you  remember,  could  aught  be  compared  ? 
You  remember  how  fond  was  my  earliest  vow  — 
Not  fonder  than  that  which  I  breathe  to  thee  now. 
You  remember  it  —  don't  you  ? 
You  will  think  of  it  —  won't  you  ? 
Yes,  yes,  of  all  this  the  remembrance  will  last 
Long  after  the  present  fades  into  the  past. 


—  — Co) 

144  NOWADAYS. 


NOWADAYS. 


ALAS  !  how  every  thing  has  changed, 

Since  I  was  sweet  sixteen, 
When  all  the  girls  wore  homespun  frocks, 

And  aprons  nice  and  clean, 
With  bonnets  made  of  braided  straw, 

That  tied  beneath  the  chin, 
The  shawls  laid  neatly  on  the  neck, 

And  fastened  with  a  pin ! 

I  recollect  the  time  when  I 

Rode  father's  horse  to  mill, 
Across  the  meadows,  rock,  and  field, 

And  up  and  down  the  hill ; 
And  when  our  folks  were  out  at  work, 

As  sure  as  I'm  a  sinner, 
I  jumped  upon  a  horse  bare-back, 

And  carried  them  their  dinner. 

Dear  me  !  young  ladies,  nowadays, 

Would  almost  faint  away 
To  think  of  riding  all  alone 

In  wagon,  chaise,  or  sleigh ; 


=© 


NOWADAYS.  145 


And  as  for  giving  "  pa  "  his  meals, 

Or  helping  "  ma  "  to  bake, 
O,  saints  !  'twould  spoil  their  lily  hands  — 

Though  sometimes  they  make  cake. 

When  winter  came,  the  maiden's  heart 

Began  to  beat  and  flutter ; 
Each  beau  would  take  his  sweetheart  out, 

Sleigh  ridingjn  the  cutter. 
Or,  if  the  storm  was  bleak  and  cold, 

The  girls  and  beaux  together 
Would  meet  and  have  most  glorious  fun, 

And  never  mind  the  weather. 

But  now,  indeed,  —  it  grieves  me  much 

The  circumstance  to  mention,  — 
However  kind  the  young  man's  heart, 

And  honest  his  intention, 
He  never  asks  the  girls  to  ride, 

But  such  a  war  is  waged ! 
And  if  he  sees  her  once  a  week, 

Why,  surely,  "  they're  engaged." 


10 


146  HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME. 


HOW    SHE   FOUND   THE    TIME. 

"  AH,"  said  Mr.  Nelson,  as,  drawing  his  chair  to 
the  centre  table,  his  eye  rested  on  one  of  the 
popular  novels  of  the  day,  "  so  you  have  a  new 
book  to  read,  Sarah.  Where  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  I  borrowed  it  of  Mrs.  Merton,  or  rather  she 
lent  it  to  me  —  insisted  upon  my  taking  it,  because, 
she  said,  she  knew  it  would  interest  me,  fascinate 
me  ;  indeed,  I  told  her  it  wasn't  much  use  to  take  it, 
for  I  should  never  find  time  to  read  it." 

"  But  she  had  found  time  —  hadn't  she  ?  "  asked 
her  husband,  a  little  roguishly. 

"  Of  course  she  had.  She  always  finds  time  to 
do  any  thing  she  wants  to  ;  I  never  saw  such  a 
woman  in  my  life." 

"And  yet  she  has  four  children,  and  keeps  but 
one  girl  ?  " 

"And  I  have  only  two  children,  and  as  many 
girls,  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  add  —  would  you 


HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME.  147 

not  ?  "  responded  the  wife,  just  a  very  little  bit  out 
of  humor. 

"  I  must  confess  you  have  guessed  aright,  my  dear. 
But  I  would  not  have  said  it  in  a  fault-finding  way, 
but  simply  from  a  desire  to  find  out,  if  we  can,  why 
you  have  so  little  time  to  devote  to  reading  —  why 
you  always  have  so  much  to  do.  Does  Mrs.  Merton 
do  up  every  thing  as  neatly  as  yourself  ?  Her  par- 
lors, I  know,  always  seem  the  perfection  of  order 
and  comfort,  her  husband's  and  children's  clothes 
are  always  tidy,  and  she  herself,  in  appearance,  the 
personification  of  neatness  and  taste.  But  after  all, 
perhaps  there  may  be  some  oversight  that  is  kept 
out  of  view." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  Mrs.  Nelson,  emphati- 
cally. "She  is  one  of  the  most  thorough  house- 
keepers I  ever  knew.  I  have  been  sent  there  when 
she  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill,  and  so  violently, 
too,  as  to  be  unable  to  give  a  single  direction  ;  and 
yet  every  thing  needed  was  always  found  without 
the  least  trouble  ;  every  drawer  and  closet  was  in 
order,  and  the  whole  house  would  have  borne  the 
rigid  scrutiny  of  the  most  prime  member  of  the 
Quaker  sisterhood.  And  yet  she  never  is  in  a 
hurry,  and  though  always  doing  something,  never 
complains  of  being  wearied.  She  does  all  her  own 


148  HOTT   SHE   FOtJXD    THE    TIME. 

and  children's  sewing,  even  to  cutting  dresses,  and 
coats  and  pants;  embroiders  all  her  collars,  and 
sleeves,  and  little  girls'  ruffles  ;  writes  more  letters 
every  year  than  I  have  done  since  my  marriage, 
and  reads  more  than  any  other  woman  not  purely 
literary  that  I  ever  knew.  But  how  she  does  it  is  a 
mystery." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  her  to  solve  it  ?  " 

"I  have  thought  of  doing  so  ;  but  —  but  —  well, 
to  own  the  truth,  I  am  ashamed  to.  It  would  be 
a  tacit  confession  that  I  am  in  the  wrong  somehow." 

"  But  do  you  think  you  are  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  do  ;  and  then  again  I  think  my 
failures  to  do  what  I  would  so  dearly  love  to,  are 
the  result  of  the  circumstances  which  I  cannot  con- 
trol. For  instance,  yesterday  afternoon  I  meant  to 
have  emptied  my  mending  basket  entirely,  —  I  could 
have  done  so  easily,  and  then  one  worry  of  the  week 
would  have  been  over,  —  but  Mrs.  Lawrence  and 
her  friend  from  Boston  came  in  quite  early,  and, 
as  you  know,  passed  the  afternoon.  I  could  not 
blame  them  for  coming  when  they  did,  for  I  had 
told  them  to  come  any  afternoon  this  week ;  and  I 
was  glad  to  see  them,  and  enjoyed  the  visit.  Yet  it 
upset  my  plans  about  mending  entirely,  for  of  course 
it  would  never  have  done  to  have  littered  the  parlor 

@  •  = 


HOW    SHE   FOUND    THE    TIME.  149 

with  that.    The  afternoon  was  lost  as  far  as  work 
was  concerned." 

"  But  was  there  nothing  you  could  do  ?  " 

"Yes,  if  I  had  only  had  it.  There  were  the 
handkerchiefs  and  cravats  you  want  to  take  with 
you  next  week,  which  I  might  have  hemmed  if  I  had 
only  had  them.  But  you  see,  I  had  designed  them 
for  this  afternoon,  and  so  did  not  go  out  to  buy 
them  till  to-day.  And  now  I  suppose  the  mending 
must  lie  over  till  next  week,  and  then  there  will  be 
two  baskets  full.  And  so  it  goes.  I  wish  some- 
times the  days  were  forty-eight,  instead  of  twenty- 
four  hours  long." 

"  Well,  I  don't,  I'm  sure,"  said  her  husband,  good 
humoredly ;  "  for  I  get  tired  enough  now,  and  I 
doubt,  Sarah,  if  either  you  or  I  would  find  any  more 
time  than  we  do  now." 

"  "Well,  one  thing  is  certain  —  I  shall  never  find 
time,  as  the  days  are  now,  to  do  what  I  want 
to  do." 

"  But  you  say  Mrs.  Merton  does." 

"  Yes,  but  she  is  an  exception  to  all  the  rest  of 
my  acquaintances." 

"An  honorable  one." 

"  Yes,  an  honorable  one.     I  wish  there  were  more 
with  her  faculty." 
_ 


150  HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME. 

"  Perhaps  there  would  be,  were  her  example  fol- 
lowed." 

"  I  understand  you,  and  perhaps  some  day  will 
heed  the  hint."  But  here  her  further  reply  was 
prevented  by  a  request  from  his  head  clerk  to  see 
her  husband  alone  on  urgent  business. 

All  this  time,  while  Mrs.  Nelson  had  been  bewail- 
ing the  want  of  time,  she  had  sat  with  her  hands 
lying  idly  in  her  lap.  To  be  sure,  she  was  waiting 
for  Bridget  to  bring  the  baby  to  be  undressed  ;  but 
she  might  easily  have  finished  hemming  the  last 
cravat  in  those  precious  moments,  and  there  it  lay 
on  her  workstand,  and  her  thimble  and  thread  both 
with  it.  But  she  never  thought  of  taking  it  —  not 
she.  She  never  thought  it  worth  while  to  attempt 
doing  any  thing  while  waiting  to  do  some  other 
duty  that  must  soon  have  to  be  performed.  And 
thus,  in  losing  those  moments,  she  lost  the  evening 
chance  to  finish  the  hem ;  for  when  the  baby  did 
come,  he  was  cross  and  squally,  and  would  not  let 
her  lay  him  in  the  crib  until  nine  o'clock,  and  then 
she  was  so  tired  and  nervous,  she  couldn't,  she 
said,  set  a  stitch  to  save  her  life. 

It  happened  one  day.  in  the  following  week,  after 
a  morning  of  rather  more  flurry  and  worry  than 
usual,  that  she  went  to  the  centre  table  to  hunt  for 


HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME.  151 

a  misplaced  memorandum.  In  her  search  for  it  her 
glance  casually  fell  upon  the  borrowed  novel,  and 
with  that  glance  the  foregoing  conversation  rushed 
forcibly  over  her  memory. 

"  I  declare,"  said  she,  "  I  have  half  a  mind  to  run 
over  to  Mrs.  Merton's  this  afternoon,  and  cross- 
question  her,  till  I  learn  her  secret.  Such  a  life  as 
I  am  living  is  unbearable.  I  can't  stand  it  any 
longer.  If  she  can  find  time,  I  know  I  can,  if  I  only 
knew  how." 

And  true  to  her  resolution,  for  though  seemingly 
hasty,  it  had  been  for  some  time  maturing  in  her 
mind,  almost  unwittingly  she  found  herself  at  an 
early  hour  at  her  friend's  parlor,  her  bonnet  and 
shawl  thrown  aside,  and  herself,  work-bag  in  hand, 
snugly  ensconced  in  a  low  rocker  beside  her  little 
work-stand. 

"  You  have  not  finished  your  collar,  then  ?  "  she 
observed  to  Mrs.  Merton,  after  a  while,  by  way  of 
leading  the  conversation  in  the  desired  channel. 

"  0,  yes,  indeed,"  answered  the  hostess,  tossing  her 
head  to  one  side,  gayly,  with  a  pretty  affectation 
of  pride.  "  Didn't  you  notice  how  becoming  it  was  ?  " 

"  And  commencing  another  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Only  basting  on  the  pattern,  so  as  to  have  it 
ready  for  some  odd  moment." 


152  HOW    SHE   FOUND    THE   TIME. 

"  But  how  do  you  bear  to  spend  so  much  time  in 
embroidery  ?  Why  not  purchase  it  at  once  ;  it  is  so 
much  cheaper  in  the  end  ?  " 

"  For  the  wealthy  it  is,  I  grant,  and  for  those  not 
very  wealthy,  if  their  eyesight  is  poor,  or  if  lacking 
in  taste  and  needle  skill.  But  I  find  it  cheaper  to 
do  it  myself.  My  husband's  salary  does  not  allow 
us  many  luxuries,  and  the  small  sum  we  can  spend 
for  them  I  prefer  should  go  towards  purchasing  j 
what  my  own  fingers  cannot  make.  I  can  embroider 
collars  and  sleeves  not  as  perfectly,  it  is  true,  as 
they  do  in  foreign  climes,  but  handsomely  enough  to 
suit  my  own  and  husband's  eyes ;  but  I  cannot 
write  books,  magazines,  reviews,  and  newspapers, 
and  they  are  luxuries  more  essential  to  my  happi- 
ness than  these  articles  of  dress  ;  so  I  do  my  own 
needlework,  and  with  the  money  thus  saved  we 
purchase  something  that  will  never  go  out  of  fashion 
—  an  intellectual  heritage  for  our  little  one  as  well 
.as  a  perpetual  feast  for  us." 

"  But  how  do  you  find  time  to  do  so  much  work  ? 
I  cannot  conceive  how  or  where." 

"Well,  I  hardly  know  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Mer- 
ton,  laughingly.  "  My  husband  sometimes  tells  me 
he  believes  the  fairies  help  me.  I  seldom  sit 
down  to  it  in  earnest,  but  I  catch  it  up  at  odd 


@-  =(§ 

HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TI5IE.  153 

moments,  and  before  I  am  aware  of  it  myself,  it  is 
done." 

"  0,  dear,"  and  Mrs.  Nelson  sighed.  "  I  wish  I 
had  your  faculty.  Do,  pray,  Mrs.  Merton,  tell  us  the 
secret  of  your  success  in  every  thing.  How  do  you 
always  find  time  for  every  thing?" 

"  Do  you  question  me  seriously,  or  only  mocking- 
ly, to  remind  me  how  much  I  leave  undone  ?  " 

"Seriously?  Yes,  very  seriously.  To  own  the 
truth,  it  was  to  learn  this  I  came  over  here  to-day. 
There  are  a  thousand  things  I  long  to  do,  because 
they  would  not  only  increase  my  own  joys,  but  those 
of  my  husband  and  household  ;  but  I  cannot  find  the 
time.  Yet  you  do  them,  and  you  have  more  cares 
and  duties  than  I.  If  you  tell  me  your  secret,  be- 
lieve me,  I  shall  feel  under  the  deepest  obligations 
to  you." 

Her  friend  hesitated  a  moment.  She  was  not 
wont  to  speak  very  much  of  herself,  believing  that 
character  should  reveal  itself  by  actions  mostly,  and 
conscious  that  it  will,  too,  whether  it  be  a  perfect 
or  faulty  one.  Yet  there  was  such  an  urgency,  at 
length  it  conquered  the  scruples  of  modesty. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  shall  remind  you  of  '  great  I,'  if  I 
undertake  it,"  she  said,  with  a  blush  ;  "  yet  I  can 
hardly  give  you  my  experience  without  subjecting 


154  HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME. 


myself  to  the  charge  of  egotism.  Yet,  as  we  are 
alone,  and  as  you  seem  to  think  I  have  avoided  some 
of  the  besetting  evils  of  this  life,  why,  I  will  reveal 
to  you  what  you  call  my  secret. 

"My  mother  early  instilled  into  my  mind  and 
heart,  by  precept  and  example,  a  few  rules  of  action, 
that  I  have  sedulously  endeavored  to  follow,  and 
which,  I  believe,  almost  more  than  any  thing  else 
have  contributed  to  my  domestic  peace  and  hap- 
piness. 

"  One  of  them  is,  always  to  have  a  time  for  every 
ordinary  duty  ;  to  have  that  time  at  such  a  day  or 
hour  of  the  day  as  is  best  adapted  to  its  perfect  ful- 
filment, and  always,  extraordinary  cases  excepted, 
to  perform  the  duty  at  that  time. 

"  For  instance,  my  general  sweeping  day  is  on 
Friday,  because  to  my  mind  it  is  the  most  suitable 
one  of  the  week.  And  the  best  portion  of  the  day 
to  do  it  in  is  very  early  in  the  morning,  for  then  I 
can  throw  open  my  doors  and  windows  to  the  fresh- 
est, purest  breezes  we  get  at  all ;  and  I  am  not 
disturbed  by  the  din  of  travel,  nor  annoyed  by  the 
dust ;  and  then,  by  postponing  my  bath  and  break- 
fast toilet,  merely  throwing  on  a  wrapper  and  cap 
to  sweep  in  till  the  house  is  clean,  why  I  am  tidy 
for  the  rest  of  the  day. 


Coj 


HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME.  155 

"  Whereas,  if  1  wait  till  after  breakfast,  I  must 
spend  time  to  take  another  bath,  and  make  another 
change  of  dress.  Now,  I  confess,  it  is  hard  some- 
times to  keep  this  rule.  When  my  sleep  has  been 
broken  by  the  restlessness  of  baby,  or  when  some- 
thing has  kept  me  up  later  than  usual  the  previous 
evening,  I  feel  strongly  inclined  to  lie  in  bed  and  let 
the  sweeping  hour  go  by.  But  the  dreadful  conse- 
quences always  stare  me  in  the  face  so  ruefully,  that 
sleepy  and  weary  though  I  may  be,  I  struggle  out  of 
bed,  —  for  it  is  verily  a  struggle,  —  and  tying  down 
niy  hair,  and  buttoning  on  my  wrapper,  and  drawing 
on  my  gloves,  as  my  old  aunt  used  to  say,  I  '  make 
business  fly.'  And  I  assure  you  I  always  find  myself 
enough  happier  to  compensate  me  for  my  efforts, 
hard  though  they  seemed. 

"And  then,  for  a  second  rule,  I  always  have  a 
place  for  every  thing,  and  always  put  it  in  its  place, 
and  thus  waste  no  time  in  looking  after  things.  For 
example,  perhaps  you  will  laugh  at  it,  but  I  always 
make  it  a  rule  to  put  my  thimble  in  my  sewing-box, 
when  I  leave  my  work,  no  patter  how  great  the 
hurry;  and  you  can  have  no  idea,  until  you  have  tried 
it,  how  much  time  is  thus  saved.  Why,  I  have  one 
friend  who  says  she  lost  so  much  time  by  looking  up 
her  thimble,  that  she  has  bought  herself  three,  so 


156  HOW   SHE   FOUND   THE   TIME. 

that  when  one  is  mislaid,  she  needn't  wait  to  hunt  it 
up.  Yet  this  rule,  which  soon  would  become  a 
habit,  would  have  saved  her  time  and  money. 

"  The  third  and  last  rule  necessary  to  specify  is 
this  :  to  be  always  busy,  or  perhaps  I  ought  to  say 
employed,  for  with  housekeepers,  generally,  to  be 
busy  is  to  be  in  a  worry  over  too  much  work." 

"  But  you  don't  mean  to  say  you  never  rest  — 
that  you  never  get  tired  ?  " 

"By  no  means;  I  both  rest  and  get  tired,  and 
many  times  each  day.  But  rest  does  not  always  im- 
ply cessation  from  labor.  Sometimes  it  does,  I  grant; 
and  when,  after  any  unusual  fatigue,  I  find  myself 
inclined  to  lie  down  and  sleep,  I  always  indulge  the 
feeling.  It  is  one  of  Nature's  promptings,  which,  to 
insure  health  and  joy,  should  be  heeded.  And  I  do 
not  feel  that  I  ever  lose  any  time  that  way,  for  the 
half  or  even  hour's  sleep  so  invigorates  me,  that  I 
can  work  with  twice  the  ability,  afterwards,  that  I 
could  if  I  had  striven  on  with  weary  limbs  and 
fretted  nerves.  But  many  times  a  change  of  em- 
ployment or  occupatfch  will  rest  one  as  much,  nay, 
more,  than  idleness.  You  know  yourself,  after  a 
busy  forenoon  on  your  feet,  that  it  rests  you  to  sit 
down  in  your  rocker,  and  busy  yourself  with  your 
sewing.  And  sometimes,  when  I  have  been  handling 


CO) —  .  — ( 

HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME.  157 

heavy  clothes,  such  as  coats  and  pantaloons  for  my 
boys,  till  my  arms  and  fingers  ache,  I  rest  them  by 
taking  up  some  light  garment  for  my  little  girl. 
Or  when  my  limbs  ache  severely,  from  some  arduous 
duty,  and  yet  I  have  no  inclination  to  sleep,  as  is 
frequently  the  case  after  rocking  a  worrisome  child 
to  sleep,  I  lie  down  on  my  old-fashioned  lounge,  and 
rest  myself  in  body  by  that  course ;  while  I  soothe, 
and  gladden,  and  improve  my  mind  by  reading,  al- 
ways being  careful,  though,  to  put  by  the  book  just 
as  soon  as  I  feel  that  I  am  enough  recruited." 

"  But  suppose  you  get  behindhand  with  your  work 
from  sickness  or  company,  or  some  other  cause  ;  what 
do  you  do  then?" 

"  I  never  allow  myself  to  get  behindhand  from  the. 
latter  cause  —  visitors.  I  never  allow  them  to  in- 
terrupt my  domestic  affairs.  I  never  invite  company 
except  on  those  days  of  the  week  that  have  the 
lighter  duties.  And  if  casual  visitors  come  along, 
they  will  not  disturb  or  hinder  you,  if  the  rules  I 
have  given  you  are  implicitly  followed.  You  are 
always  ready  for  chance  company.  And  with  these 
rules,  even  sickness,  unless  long  continued,  will  not 
vary  the  domestic  economy.  But  if  I  do  get  behind- 
hand, I  make  it  up  as  quick  as  possible.  I  rise  an 
hour  earlier  every  morning,  and  deny  myself  the 


158  HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME. 

luxury  of  visiting  till  the  accumulated  work  is  per- 
formed." 

"  Excuse  me,  but  I  must  ask  you  one  more  ques- 
tion. What  do  you  mean  by  odd  times  ?  You  said 
you  should  work  your  collar  at  odd  moments." 

"  I  can  answer  you  but  by  some  examples.  Yes- 
terday afternoon  I  was  going  to  cut  and  baste  a 
dress  for  myself.  But  unexpectedly  a  friend  from 
the  country  came  in  to  take  tea  with  me.  Now,  I 
did  not  want  to  litter  the  parlor  with  my  pieces  ;  so 
I  went  to  my  basket  and  took  out  a  pretty  little 
sack  for  Harry,  and  spent  my  time  on  sewing  that. 
I  always  keep  something  in  my  basket  suitable  for 
such  odd  times ;  and  when  I  have  nothing  really 
necessary,  I  take  up  my  embroidery.  And  then,  you 
know,  we  wives  are  frequently  obliged  to  wait  till  a 
considerable  time  has  elapsed  for  the  appearance  of 
our  husbands  at  the  table,  and  these  odd  moments, 
usually  so  irksome  to  women,  are  precious  to  me. 
I  always  mean  to  have  the  meals  ready  at  the  hour  : 
if  Mr.  Merton  is  not  here  then,  —  and,  being  head 
clerk,  scarcely  a  day  passes  but  some  meal  must  wait, 
—  instead  of  watching  the  clock  or  thrumming  on 
the  windows,  I  read  the  newspapers  and  magazines. 
I  assure  you  I  never  take  any  other  time  to  read 
them,  and  yet  I  am  never  behindhand  with  them. 


HOW    SHE    FOUND    THE    TIME.  159 

And  when  I  have  none  of  them  on  hand,  I  catch  up 
some  story  that  I  want  to  read,  and  yet  don't  want 
to  give  that  time  which  I  usually  devote  to  solid 
reading.  The  volume  I  lent  you  "  —  Mrs.  Nelson 
blushed  ;  she  had  had  it  a  week,  and  read  only  the 
first  chapter  —  "I  read  in  four  days  in  this  way. 
And  when  I  have  no  reading  that  I  am  anxious  to 
do,  I  spend  the  moments  in  writing.  Most  of  my 
letters  are  penned  while  waiting  for  the  tea  bell  to 
ring.  And  hark,  there  it  is  now  ;  a  pleasant  sound 
for  your  ears,  too,  I  guess,  after  the  homily  I  have 
just  given  you.  Please,"  and  she  rose  gracefully, 
"  let  '  great  I '  usher  '  dear  you ;  to  the  dining  room." 

"  With  pleasure  ;  yet  I  wish  the  bell  had  not  rung 
so  early.  I  have  not  heard  half  enough." 

"  Have  you  never  observed,  my  dear  friend,  that 
many  sermons  lose  half  their  effectiveness  by  undue 
length  ?  The  benediction  at  such  a  time  is  noted  as 
a  relief,  not  a  blessing.  Some  other  time  I  will 
preach  the  rest." 

"  I  pray  Heaven  I  may  have  resolution  enough  to 
practice  what  you  have  already  taught.  Sure  I  am, 
if  I  so  do,  my  life,  what  is  left  of  it,  will  be  like 
yours  —  a  perpetual  sermon  ;  and  my  daily  benedic- 
tion like  yours  also  —  the  blessings  of  my  children 
and  the  praise  of  my  husband." 


160  SHE    WOKE    THAT    MORN   IN    HEAVEN. 


SHE  WOKE  THAT  MORN  IN  HEAVEN. 


SHE  knelt  alone,  that  little  one, 

An  orphan  child  of  three, 
And  whimpered  forth  the  prayer  she  learned 

Beside  her  mother's  knee. 
No  gentle  hand  upon  her  head 

In  soft  caress  was  laid, 
No  sweet  voice  murmuring  her  name  — 

She  knelt  alone  and  prayed. 

The  tear  drops  resting  on  her  cheek 

A  tale  of  sorrow  told  ; 
For  even  she,  that  angel  child, 

Had  found  the  world  was  cold, 
And  murmured  forth,  with  tiny  hands 

Up-pointing  to  the  skies, 
"  God,  take  me  to  my  mamma,  when 

Poor  little  Lily  dies." 

The  angels,  pausing,  heard  the  prayer, 

And  in  the  calm  moonlight 
Bent  down  and  breathed  upon  the  child, 

And  kissed  her  forehead  white ; 


(g) 

MAIDEN    BEAUTY.  161 


And  bearing  her  with  songs  of  love 
Through  the  blue  depths  of  even, 

They  laid  her  in  her  mother's  arms  — 
She  woke  that  morn  in  heaven  ! 


MAIDEN    BEAUTY. 


HER  hand's  like  a  lily  — 

But  just  at  the  tip 
It  hath  stolen  a  tint 

Like  the  hue  of  her  lip. 
Her  breath's  like  the  morning, 

When  hyacinths  blow ; 
Her  feet  leave  a  blessing    - 

Wherever  they  go. 

For  each  one  she's  something, 

To  comfort  or  cheer  ; 
When  her  purse  fails  her  wishes, 

She  gives  them  a  tear. 
E'en  the  sound  of  her  step 

Seems  to  bring  them  relief ; 
And  they  bless  that  sweet  face 
Which  speaks  hope  'mid  their  grief 


162  GIVE    ME    MY    OLD    SEAT,   MOTHER. 


GIYE  ME  MY  OLD  SEAT,  MOTHER. 


GIVE  me  my  old  seat,  mother, 

With  my  head  upon  thy  knee ; 
I've  passed  through  many  a  changing  scene . 

Since  thus  I  sat  by  thee : 
0,  let  me  look  into  thine  eyes  ; 

Their  meek,  soft,  loving  light 
Falls  like  a  gleam  of  holiness 

Upon  my  heart  to-night. 

I've  not  been  long  away,  mother ; 

Few  suns  have  rose  and  set 
Since  last  the  tear  drops  on  thy  cheek 

My  lips  in  kisses  met ; 
'Tis  but  a  little  time,  I  know, 

But  very  long  it  seems, 
Though  every  night  I  come  to  thee, 

Dear  mother,  in  my  dreams. 

The  world  has  kindly  dealt,  mother, 
By  the  child  thou  lov'st  so  well ; 

Thy  prayers  have  circled  round  her  path, 
And  'twas  a  holy  spell 


(o) 

A  WORLD  OF  LOVE  AT  HOME.         163 

Which  made  that  path  so  clearly  bright, 

Which  strewed  the  roses  there, 
Which  gave  the  light  and  cast  the  balm 

On  every  breath  of  air. 

I  bear  a  happy  heart,  mother  ; 

A  happier  never  beat ; 
And  even  now  new  buds  of  hope 

Are  bursting  at  my  feet. 
O  mother,  life  may  be  a  "  dream  ;  " 

But  if  such  dreams  are  given 
While  at  the  portal  thus  we  stand, 

What  are  the  truths  of  heaven  ? 

__  * 


A  WORLD   OF   LOVE  AT  HOME. 


THE  earth  hath  treasures  fair  and  bright, 

Deep  buried  in  her  caves, 
And  ocean  hideth  many  a  gem, 

With  its  blue  curling  waves. 

Yet  not  within  her  bosom  dark, 

Or  'neath  her  dashing  foam, 
Lies  there  a  treasure  equalling 

A  world  of  love  at  home. 


@-  @ 

164  WITTY   WOMEN. 


WITTY   WOMEN. 

A  WRITER,  illustrating  the  fact  that  some  errors 
are  lifted  into  importance  by  efforts  to  refute  them, 
when  they  need  to  be  treated  with  wholesome  doses 
of  contempt  and  ridicule,  observes,  that  "  all  the 
blows  inflicted  by  the  herculean  club  of  certain 
logicians  are  not  half  so  effectual  as  a  box  on  the 
ear  of  a  celebrated  atheist  by  the  hand  of  beauty. 
After  having  in  vain  preached  to  a  circle  of  ladies, 
he  attempted  to  revenge  himself  by  saying,  '  Pardon 
my  error,  ladies  ;  I  did  not  imagine  that  in  a  house 
where  wit  vies  with  grace,  I  alone  should  have  the 
honor  of  not  believing  in  God.'  '  You  are  not 
alone,  sir/  answered  the  mistress  of  the  house  ;  '  my 
horses,  my  dog,  my  cat,  share  this  honor  with  you  ; 
only  these  poor  brutes  have  the  good  sense  not  to 
boast  of  it.'  " 

This  reminds  us  of  what  occurred  a  few  years  ago 
on  a  steamboat,  on  one  of  our  western  river?.  A 
thing  in  the  shape  of  a  man  was  glorying  in  his 


TO    AN    ABSENT    WIFE.  165 

atheism,  avowing  that  the  present  life  was  all  of  a 
man  ;  that  he  had  no  soul  and  no  hereafter.  "  And 
so  you  say  you  have  no  soul,"  asked  a  gentleman  in 
the  group,  evidently  designing  to  reason  with  him 
on  the  subject.  "No,"  replied  the  atheist,  "not  a 
whit  more  than  a  pig."  The  gentleman  was  about 
to  enter  on  an  argument  with  him,  when  an  elderly 
Scotch  lady  spoke  up  smartly,  "  Sir,  I  hope  you  will 
not  spend  your  breath  reasoning  wi'  the  creature ; 
by  his  ain  confession,  he  has  nae  mair  soul  than  a 
pig  ;  and  ye  wad  nae  argue  wi'  a  pig." 


TO    AN    ABSENT    WIFE. 


'Tis  morn  —  the  sea  breeze  seems  to  bring 
Joy,  health,  and  freshness  on  its  wing  ; 
Bright  flowers  to  me,  all  fresh  and  new, 
Are  glittering  in  the  early  dew, 
And  perfumes  rise  from  every  grove, 
As  incense  to  the  clouds  that  move 
Like  spirits  o'er  yon  welkin  clear ; 
But  I  am  sad  —  thou  art  not  here. 


(Q) 


166  NOBODY'S  CHILD. 


NOBODY'S    CHILD. 


TELL  me,  homeless  wanderer,  tell  me, 

For  the  storm  is  growing  wild, 
What  sad  fortune  hath  befell  thee ; 

Art  thou  some  lone  orphan  child  ? 
Wandering,  while  the  dismal  tempest 

Breathes  its  low  and  fearful  tone, 
And  the  cheerful  fire  is  glowing 

Bright  in  many  a  cheerful  home. 
"  Ah,  my  friend,  no  kindly  welcome 

Greets  me  on  this  desert  wild ; 
Others  have  their  homes  and  firesides, 

But  I  am  nobody's  child. 

"  For  my  fate  no  heart  is  beating, 

And  my  grief  no  eye  can  see ; 
Others  meet  their  cheerful  greeting, 

But  nobody  cares  for  me. 
Words  of  love,  and  pleasant  faces, 

Thoughts  of  mercy,  voices  mild, 
Ne'er  my  hapless  lot  embraces, 

For  I  am  nobody's  child." 


NOBODY'S  CHILD.  167 


When  thy  bosom  heaves  with  sorrow, 

Anguish  racks  thy  youthful  head, 
Who  will  light  thy  gloomy  morrow  ? 

What  kind  hand  will  smooth  thy  bed  ? 
Falls  there  ne'er  a  tear  above  thee, 

When  thy  heart  is  growing  faint  ? 
None  to  listen,  none  to  love  thee, 

When  thou  makest  thy  complaint  ? 

"  Nay,  this  world  is  cold,  unfeeling, 
Full  of  vain  contempt  and  scorn ; 

Mercy  still  her  face  concealing, 
'Mid  the  pelting,  winter  storm." 

Wanderer,  there  are  floating  round  thee 

Ardent  longings,  all  unseen  ; 
Some  warm  tear  for  thee  is  falling, 
Some  kind  voice  for  thee  is  calling, 

'Mid  this  desolated  scene. 
Tender  spirits,  gone  before  thee, 

Hover  on  their  stilly  wings, 
Yet  thou  canst  not  hear  their  music, 

Flung  from  tender  spirit  strings  ; 
Or,  perchance,  there  yet  may  linger, 

On  the  earth,  or  on  the  sea, 
Some  kind  spirit,  true  and  faithful, 

Some  lone  heart  that  beats  for  thee, 

"  Nay,  they  tell  me  I  am.  passing 
To  the  lone  and  quie.t  tomb  ; 

Sure  it  seems  a  dreary  pathway, 
Covered  by  the  deepest  gloom. 


© 

168  THE  AWAKENING    OF    THE    LYRE. 

There,  they  tell  me,  pain  and  sorrow 
No  more  haunt  the  troubled  breast ; 

There  the  cold  world  always  points  me, 
As  the  only  place  of  rest. 

"  But  I've  heard,  or  dreamed  I  heard  it, 

Of  '  Our  Father '  in  the  skies  ; 
Will  he  mark  the  lonely  dwelling 

Where  my  worthless  body  lies  ? 
Will  he,  from  his  home  above  me, 
Write  the  names  of  those  who  love  me  ? 
O'er  my  grave,  in  letters  wild, 
Will  he  trace  Nobody's  Child?" 


THE  AWAKENING  OF  THE  LYRE. 


FATHER,  I  cannot  strike  my  lyre 

Till  thy  celestial  breath 
Hath  swept  across  the  trembling  chords, 

And  waked  its  soul  from  death. 
The  full,  deep  melodies  of  love, 

The  mystic  powers  of  song 
That  sleep  within,  thou  only  knowest  j 

To  thee  they  all  belong. 


CORRECTING   IN   ANGER.  169 


CORRECTING    IN    ANGER. 

WE  were  pained  the  other  day,  passing  near  the 
Gas  Works,  in  seeing  a  father  driving  his  little  boy 
before  him,  apparently  about  nine  years  of  age. 
The  father  was  evidently  much  angered,  and  lashed 
the  little  fellow  every  few  steps  most  severely  with 
a  heavy  cart  whip.  The  child,  it  would  seem,  had 
played  the  truant  —  provokingly  enough,  no  doubt, 
and  deserved,  it  may  be,  chastisement.  But  the 
father  who  will  horsewhip  his  child  in  the  public 
streets,  in  presence  of  the  passing  crowds,  is  unfit  to 
be  trusted  with  a  parent's  responsibilities.  In  this 
way  that  delicate  sense  of  shame,  which  is  essential 
to  a  noble  and  virtuous  character,  and  all  the  finer 
sensibilities,  are  blunted.  Whatever  the  meed  of 
punishment  due  that  little  boy,  that  parent  should 
not  judge  of  his  delinquency  under  the  influence  of 
his  anger.  The  exhibition  of  such  anger  is  prima 
facie  evidence  that  the  punishment  was  too  severe. 
The  parent  who  strikes  a  child  in  anger  deserves 


© 


=@ 

170  CORRECTING   IN   ANGER. 

two  blows  for  every  one  given.     He  makes  himself 
more  a  culprit  than  his  child. 

We  have  alluded  to  this  circumstance  because  it 
illustrates  a  too  common  and  often  fatal  error  in  the 
management  of  children.  Parents,  punish  your  chil- 
dren for  their  disobedience  —  it  is  your  duty  to  do 
it :  but  never  do  this  in  a  way  to  crush  the  feeling 
of  self-respect,  and  never  do  it  in  anger.  Speak  not 
in  reproof ;  lift  no  chastening  rod  till  your  anger  has 
thoroughly  cooled  ;  wait,  if  need  be,  till  the  quie- 
tude and  solemnity  of  evening,  when  the  business  and 
play  of  the  day  are  ended.  Be  grave,  be  deliberate  ; 
explain  the  nature  of  the  misconduct,  and  show  that 
love,  and  not  revenge,  impels  you  to  punish.  Thus 
will  you  awaken  the  child's  conscience,  and  win  it  to 
your  side.  With  penitential  feelings  and  purposes 
of  amendment,  the  little  offender  will  fall  asleep, 
and  awake  with  a  warmer  filial  affection,  and 
strengthened  desire  to  do  right. 


@. 


SONG    OF   THE   PILGRIMS.  171 


SONG   OF    THE   PILGRIMS. 


THE  breeze  has  swelled  the  whitening  sail, 
The  blue  waves  curl  beneath  the  gale, 
And,  bounding  with  the  waves  and  wind, 
We  leave  Old  England's  shores  behind  — 
Leave  behind  our  native  shore, 
Homes,  and  all  we  loved  before. 

The  deep  may  dash,  the  winds  may  blow, 
The  storm  spread  out  its  wings  of  woe, 
Till  sailors'  eyes  can  see  a  shroud 
Hung  in  the  folds  of  every  cloud. 
Still,  as  long  as  life  shall  last, 
From  that  shore  we'll  speed  us  fast. 

For  we  would  rather  never  be 
Than  dwell  where  mind  cannot  be  free, 
But  bows  beneath  a  despot's  rod, 
E'en  where  it  seeks  to  worship  God. 

Blasts  of  heaven,  onward  sweep  ; 

Bear  us  o'er  the  troubled  deep. 

0,  see  what  wonders  meet  our  eyes ! 
Another  land  and  other  skies  ! 


172  SONG    OP   THE    PILGRIMS. 

Columbian  hills  have  met  our  view  : 
Adieu  !  Old  England's  shores,  adieu  ! 
Here,  at  length,  our  feet  shall  rest, 
Hearts  be  free,  and  homes  be  blessed. 

As  long  as  yonder  firs  shall  spread 
Their  green  arms  o'er  the  mountain's  head, 
As  long  as  yonder  cliffs  shall  stand 
Where  join  the  ocean  and  the  land,  — 
Shall  those  cliffs  and  mountains  be 
Proud  retreats  for  liberty. 

Now  to  the  King  of  kings  we'll  raise 
The  paean  loud  of  sacred  praise  ; 
More  loud  than  sounds  the  swelling  breeze, 
More  loud  than  speak  the  rolling  seas. 
Happier  lands  have  met  our  view : 
England's  shores,  adieu !  adieu  ! 


© 


THE    WOULD    OF   MIND.  173 


THE   WORLD    OF   MIND. 

THERE  are  people  we  meet  with  in  life  (and  they 
constitute  no  small  class  of  humanity)  who  are  like 
walking  newspapers,  or  cheap  magazines,  filled  up 
with  the  "  odds  and  ends  "  of  literature  ;  whose  ideas 
are  jumbled  together  like  the  "splinter"  items  of 
those  same  printed  sheets.  They  have  a  smattering 
of  every  thing,  but  really  understand  nothing.  You 
may  know  them  by  a  certain  flippancy  of  speech, 
and  by  their  off-hand  way  of  disposing  of  a  subject 
(no  matter  how  deep)  with  an  air  of  assurance,  if 
not  to  the  edification  of  others,  at  least  to  their  own 
satisfaction. 

They  are  persons  who  read,  or  run  over,  every 
thing  that  falls  in  their  way,  either  from  a  love  of 
what  is  new  and  exciting,  or  from  a  desire  to  be 
thought  vastly  intellectual.  Thus  they  are  contin- 
ually cramming  their  brains  with  a  heterogeneous 
mass  of  matter,  from  which  they  can  seldom  draw  a 
distinct  idea,  that  might  serve  a  good  purpose  in 


174  THE    WORLD    OF    MIND. 

confounding  error,  elucidating  truth,  or  in  strength- 
ening the  formation  of  good  principles.  Perusing  a 
work  without  reflection,  they  never  endeavor  to 
make  a  noble  sentiment,  or  a  great  thought,  their 
own,  to  use  for  the  proper  development  of  some  de- 
sirable trait  of  character  —  for  the  suppression  of 
evil  tendencies,  the  strengthening  of  high  resolves 
and  aspirations  after  a  higher,  purer  life  in  the  soul. 
In  these  days  of  superficial  attainments,  of  false 
show,  in  an  artificial  state  of  society,  the  temptation 
to  be  satisfied  with  a  mere  outside  polish  is  pecu- 
liarly strong.  This  trying  to  make  the  most  glitter, 
with  the  least  outlay  of  labor  or  expense,  is  to  a 
great  extent  prevalent  in  all  grades  of  society. 

But  if  one  can  be  content  to  enjoy  a  quiet,  unas- 
suming position  —  to  realize  a  serene  inner  life, 
without  this  cringing  deference  to  hollow  forms,  to 
time-serving  policy  and  belittling  sentiments,  how 
much  of  frivolity  and  tedious  unrest  would  they 
escape!  and  their  example,  though  for  a  time  it 
might  be  disparaged,  yet  in  its  steady  adherence  to 
the  higher  interests  of  mind,  would  prove  like  the 
sun  in  mid  heaven  —  a  blessing  to  the  world  as  far 
superior  to  the  flashy  brilliancy  of  time-serving 
worldlings,  as  that  same  glorious  luminary  exceeds 
the  gairish  light  emitted  from  confined  gases. 


THE    WORLD    OF    MIND.  175 

If  we  were  but  sensible  of  the  inestimable  worth 
of  mind,  so  grand  in  its  native  endowments,  so  sub- 
lime in  its  far-reaching  powers,  and  immortal  in  its 
being,  how  much  that  is  poor  and  trifling,  how  much 
that  is  debasing  in  its  nature,  should  we  discard  as 
unworthy  our  attention !  and  in  the  development  of 
its  latent  powers,  the  cultivation  of  its  higher  facul- 
ties, find  our  chief  happiness  —  a  happiness  as  pure 
as  it  is  ennobling.  "We  should  then  become  what 
God  designed  us  to  be  —  learners  for  eternity, 
co-workers  with  all  the  true  and  good  of  the  past 
and  present ;  laboring  for  the  improvement  of  hu- 
manity —  for  the  uplifting  of  the  soul  to  a  higher, 
holier  state  of  progress,  whose  perfection  will  be 
found  in  the  far-reaching  cycles  of  endless  being. 


176  WHOM   DOES    THE    LORD    LOVE    BEST  ? 


WHOM  DOES   THE  LORD  LOVE  BEST? 


THREE  brothers,  lingering  in  a  wood, 
Conversed  on  heavenly  things, 

When  in  their  path  an  angel  stood, 
With  splendor-flashing  wings. 

"  Who  careth  most  for  God  ?  "  she  said ; 

"  Thou  with  the  haughty  brow, 
What  wouldst  thou  give  to  win  his  love, 

If  he  were  present  now  ?  " 

"  Of  gems  a  thousand  sparkling  stones, 

Of  jewels  all  I  own ; 
And  if  I  had  a  hundred  thrones, 

They  should  be  his  alone." 

The  second  eager  spoke  :  "  And  I 
Would  bring  him  lands  and  gold." 

The  third,  abashed,  stood  trembling  by, 
Nor  dared  his  gift  unfold. 

Her  azure  eye  the  angel  turned 

Full  on  his  shrinking  form ; 
She  knew  his  soul  with  fervor  burned, 

His  heart  with  love  was  warm. 


©--  -  © 

SELF-CONCEIT.  177 

He  murmured,  "  Lo,  I  am  not  fit 

To  look  upon  thy  face  ; 
My  brothers  have  both  wealth  and  wit, 

And  much  of  heavenly  grace  ;  — 

"  And  I,  alas  !  am  weak  and  poor, 

With  little  worldly  pelf; 
Yet,  if  he  could  the  gift  endure, 

I'd  gladly  give  — :  myself !  " 

"  Thou  art,"  I  heard  the  angel  say, 

"  More  blessed  than  the  rest ; 
For  whoso  gives  himself  away, 

Him  the  Lord  loveth  best" 


SELF-CONCEIT. 


SOME  men  there  are  so  wondrous  wise, 
They're  always  right  in  their  own  eyes, 
And  set  themselves  for  standards  high, 
By  which  all  other  men  to  try. 
"When  such  a  man  you  chance  to  find, 
Ne'er  ask  him  his,  nor  tell  your  mind ; 
For  sure  I  am  you'll  not  be  right, 
Unless  your  eyes  see  with  his  sight. 


® 


178  TRUE    WORDS    BETTER   THAN    TEARS. 


TRUE  WORDS  BETTER  THAN  TEARS. 

"  WHAT  could  I  say  ?  To  offer  consolation  would 
have  been  a  waste  of  words.  Nothing  was  left  for 
me  but  to  weep  with  my  poor  friend." 

"  Nothing  ?  "  was  the  calmly  spoken  inquiry. 

"There  are  griefs  so  deep  as  demand  only  our 
tears,"  was  replied. 

"  Yet  the  physician  —  no  matter  how  virulent  the 
disease  —  will  tell  you  that  while  there  is  life 
there  is  hope.  Is  it  not  the  same  in  mental  dis- 
eases ?  " 

"  What  medicament  can  reach  this  case  ?  "  was 
asked. 

"There  is  only  one  remedy  to  be  applied  in  all 
cases  of  mental  pain." 

"  What  is  that  ?  " 

"  The  truth." 

The  first  speaker,  a  lady,  looked  doubtingly  into 
the  face  of  her  friend. 

"To  sit  down  and  weep  with  those  who  are  in 


TRUE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS.  179 

trouble  or  affliction  may  do  for  a  brief  season  ;  but 
to  make  tears  a  substitute  for  consoling  words,  is  to 
say  that  earth  has  a '  sorrow  that  heaven  cannot  heal.' " 

"  But  what  could  I  say  that  her  own  heart  would 
not  suggest?" 

'•  Much.  There  is  usually  a  selfishness  in  sorrow 
that  obscures  the  perception  of  truth.  The  grieving 
one  narrows  down  all  things  to  a  little  circle,  in  the 
centre  of  which  she  sits  weeping.  Darkness  ob- 
scures her  mind.  She  forgets  the  great  truth,  that 
all  sorrow  is  for  purification  ;  and  that  while  she  is 
in  the  furnace  of  affliction,  the  Refiner  and  Purifier 
is  sitting  near,  and  will  see  that  only  the  dross  of 
self-love  is  consumed.  Far  better  would  it  be  to 
say,  'It  is  good  for  us  to  be  afflicted,'  —  thus  throw- 
ing a  truth  into  the  mind,  —  than  merely  to  mingle 
tears  with  the  child  of  sorrow." 

"  In  her  state  she  would  reject  the  sentiment,"  said 
the  lady  friend. 

"  A  marked  symptom  of  diseased  mental  action," 
was  answered,  "  that  imperatively  calls  for  skilful 
treatment." 

"  But  if  she  reject  the  truth,  how  can  she  be 
healed  ?  " 

"  A  wise  physician  will  use  his  utmost  skill  in  the 
selection  of  a  remedy  that  will  not  be  rejected." 


180  TRUE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS. 

"  I  am  neither  wise  nor  skilful  so  far  as  my  un- 
happy friend  is  concerned." 

"  Say  not  so.  If  we  desire  to  be  instruments  of 
good,  He  who  is  seeking  the  good  of  all  his  crea- 
tures will  show  us  the  way  of  accomplishment.  Do 
you  not  think  that  some  merely  selfish  considera- 
tions are  seriously  aggravating  this  trouble  of  Mrs. 
Edwards  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  Dearly-cherished  ends  of  her 
own  have  been  utterly  destroyed.  Blending  with 
her  fears  for  her  child  are  mortification  and  wound- 
ed love.  While  she  sees  no  promise  of  happiness 
for  Lucy  in  the  future,  her  sympathy  for  the  erring 
one  is  swallowed  up  in  an  almost  maddening  sense 
of  filial  disobedience." 

"  Why  not  seek  to  awaken  her  mind  to  this  per- 
ception ?  Until  she  sees  her  error  she  cannot  rise 
above  it." 

"But  how  is  this  possible  ?  She  will  not  bear  to 
have  Lucy's  name  mentioned." 

"  Another  marked  symptom  of  a  malady  that  calls 
for  better  remedies  than  sympathetic  tears.  She 
must  be  told  the  truth." 

"  Who  will  speak  the  words  ?  " 

"  You,  if  you  are  sincerely  her  friend,"  was  the 
firm  answer. 


TRUE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS.  181 

"  She  will  be  offended." 

"  No  matter.  The  truth  will  be  seen  after  the 
blinding  excitement  of  anger  has  departed.  If  you 
truly  love  her,  you  will  brave  even  the  risk  of 
offendfng,  for  the  sake  of  doing  her  good." 

The  lady  who  was  thus  reminded  of  her  duty  in 
the  case  of  a  friend  in  great  trouble — a  friend  with 
whom  she  had  mingled  her  tears,  but  failed  to'speak 
words  of  consolation  in  which  was  a  healing  vitality 
—  went  thoughtfully  to  her  home,  brooding  over 
what  she  had  heard.  It  was  an  easy  thing  to  weep 
with  the  weeper ;  but  to  speak  words  of  truth  that 
would  hurt,  and  might  offend,  was  a  duty  from  which 
she  shrunk  with  instinctive  reluctance.  But  she 
now  saw  the  case  in  a  clearer  light,  and  a  genuine 
regard  for  Mrs.  Edwards  led  her  to  act  the  part  of 
a  wise  rather  than  a  weak  friend. 

An  hour  for  calm  reflection  was  permitted  to 
elapse,  and  then  the  lady  went  to  the  suffering 
one,  with  her  mind  clear  and  her  purpose  strong. 
Reflection  had  thrown  a  light  upon  her  way,  and 
she  saw  the  true  path  in  which  she  must  walk 
clearly. 

The  pale  weeper  was  still  sitting  under  the  shadow- 
of  her  great  life-sorrow,  when  her  friend  came  back 
to  her  darkened  chamber,  in  which  reigned  an  almost 

,— v    p . .  . 


==-- — -  -  =© 

182  TRUE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS. 


death-like  stillness.  A  hand  was  laid  in  that  of 
Mrs.  Edwards  ;  only  a  feeble  pressure  was  returned, 
and  the  tears  of  the  grieving  one  flowed  afresh. 
But  the  friend  gave  no  answering  tears.  She  had 
not  come  to  weep  with  her  sorrowing  sister,  but  to 
offer  words  of  consolation  in  which  lay  the  power 
of  healing. 

"lam  going  to  speak  with  you  about  Lucy," 
she  said. 

"  If  you  love  me,  name  her  not,"  replied  Mrs. 
Edwards,  almost  sternly. 

"  It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  speak  of  her,"  an- 
swered the  friend,  with  as  much  firmness  as  she 
could  assume.  "  Lucy  is  not  all  to  blame  for  the 
unwise  step  she  has  taken." 

"  Who  is,  then  ?  "  was  the  natural  inquiry. 

"  You  and  her  father  may  be  quite  as  much  to 
blame  as  your  unhappy  child." 

A  sudden  flush  came  into  the  pale  face  of  Mrs. 
Edwards.  There  were  few  who  did  not  think  just 
as  the  friend  had  spoken ;  but  she  alone  had  ven- 
tured to  utter  the  truth,  where,  of  all  things,  its 
utterance  was  most  needed. 

"  We  to  blame  1 " 

A  curve  of  indignation  was  on  the  lip  of  Mrs. 
Edwards. 


TRUE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS.  183 

"  If  you  were  sure  this  were  the  case,  would  it  not 
greatly  soften  your  feelings  towards  Lucy  ?  " 

"  But  I  am  not  sure  of  it,"  said  the  lady,  whose 
tears  had  already  ceased  to  flow. 

"  You  are  not  the  only  sufferer  in  this  case." 

"  Who  else  suffers  ?  " 

"  Your  unhappy  child." 

"  She  deserves  to  suffer.  What  else  could  she  ex- 
pect, in  such  a  union,  but  a  life  of  suffering  ?  "  Mrs. 
Edwards  spoke  severely. 

"  Why  do  you  so  object  to  the  marriage  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  the  man  to  make  her  happy.  In  all 
respects,  they  are  unsuited  to  each  other." 

"  Can  you  imagine  a  sadder  life  than  that  which 
a  woman  must  lead  who  broadly  errs  in  the  choice 
of  a  married  partner?" 

"  None." 

"  Pity  your  child,  then.  If  such  a  lot  is  to  be 
hers,  let  your  love  make  softer  the  pillow  on  which 
her  poor  head  must  lie.  0  my  friend,  do  not  fill  it 
with  thorns." 

Fitly  spoken  were  these  words,  and  they  found  a 
lodging-place  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Edwards ;  yet 
she  answered  — 

"  She  deceived  us.  She  broke  her  solemn  promise 
not  to  marry  this  man." 


184  TRCE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS. 

"Had  you  any  right  to  extort  such  a  promise?" 
calmly  asked  the  friend. 

"  Was  she  not  our  child  ?  " 

"  Yours  to  love,  guard,  guide,  and  educate  for 
heaven,  while  a  child,  and  yours  to  advise  and  lead 
into  right  ways  when  a  woman ;  but  not  yours, 
after  the  child  became  the  woman,  to  extort  promises 
in  violation  of  that  freedom  to  love  which  is  the 
heart's  God-given  prerogative.  The  attempt  to  con- 
strain in  this  direction  was  the  very  way  to  thwart 
your  own  wishes.  Are  you  a  woman,  and  ignorant 
on  this  head  ?  Commune  with  your  own  heart, 
my  friend,  and  you  will  see  that  you  have  erred. 
Pardon  me,  when  I  say  that  you  had  no  right  to 
bring  your  child  into  the  agonizing  strait  of  choos- 
ing between  her  parents  and  the  man  she  loved,  no 
matter  how  you  might  estimate  him  —  no,  not  even 
if  he  were  utterly  unworthy  of  her,  which  I  will  not 
believe  to  be  so.  For  the  breach  of  a  promise  to 
yourselves  you  are  more  to  blame  than  she  ;  for  you 
forced  her  to  make  a  promise  that  she  could  not 
keep  ;  and  the  necessity  of  the  case  absolves  her." 

"  Her  father  will  never  forgive  her,"  said  Mrs.  Ed- 
wards, her  voice  subdued  from  its  recent  sternness. 
"This  act  has  separated  him  forever  from  his  child." 

A  step  was  heard  in  the  passage  at  this  moment. 
--  — A 


TRUE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS.  185 

The  ladies  glanced  towards  the  door,  and  saw  Mr. 
Edwards.  There  was  a  dark  shadow  on  his  face. 
He  nodded  coldly  to  the  visitor,  who  said  to  him, 
speaking  from  the  moment's  impulse,  — 

"This  cannot  be  true." 

"  What  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  That  you  will  never  forgive  Lucy  for  the  step 
she  has  taken." 

The  shadow  on  his  face  grew  darker,  as  he  an- 
swered, — 

"  She  was  forewarned  of  the  consequences." 

"  But  you  will  relent  and  forgive." 

"  Never ! " 

"  You  have  a  Father ! "  said  the  visitor,  impres- 
sively. 

Mr.  Edwards  looked  with  a  half-doubting,  half- 
startled  air  into  the  face  of  his  interrogator. 

"  A  Father  in  heaven ! "  and  a  finger,  slowly 
raised,  was  pointed  upward. 

"  Madam ! " 

The  voice  of  Mr.  Edwards  was  far  from  being 
steady. 

"  Have  you  never  offended  —  never  acted  in  dis- 
obedience to  the  will  of  that  Father  ?  What  if  he 
were  to  say,  'I  will  neither  relent  nor  forgive7? 
Pardon  this  freedom  of  speech  in  one  who  claims 


186  TRUE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS. 

to  be  a  true  friend,"  added  the  lady,  in  a  changed 
and  lower  tone  of  voice ;  then  rising,  she  passed 
from  the  room  ere  they  could  prevent  her  departure. 

They  were  true  words,  spoken  resolutely,  and  at 
a  fitting  moment,  and  they  sunk  deeply  and  dis- 
turbingly into  the  hearts  of  Mr.  Edwards  and  his 
wife,  awakening  doubts  and  questionings  which  they 
vainly  tried  to  thrust  aside.  Had  they  ever  lived 
in  obedience  to  the  will  and  word  of  their  heavenly 
Father  ?  Had  they  nothing  to  be  forgiven,  that  they 
so  resolutely  refused  to  forgive  ? 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edwards  were  in  a  calmer  frame  of 
mind,  as  they  sat  alone  on  the  evening  that  followed 
this  day  —  calmer  for  the  words  of  truth  which  had 
found  a  lodgment  in  their  minds.  To  see  and  ac- 
knowledge the  duty  of  forgiveness  was  to  soften 
their  hearts  towards  their  erring  child.  And  now 
the  mother's  spirit  began  to  have  a  realizing  percep- 
tion of  the  unhappy  life  that  awaited  her  daughter, 
united  as  she  was  to  one  who  possessed  not,  in  her 
estimation,  a  single  attribute  of  genuine  manhood. 
Yearning  love  followed  the  motions  of  pity.  For- 
giveness became  spontaneous.  And  when  she  spoke 
to  her  husband,  it  was  in  entreaty  for  the  absent 
one.  He  received  her  words  in  silence  ;  but  his 
heart  did  not  reject  them. 


(o) —  .  (o) 

TRUE    WORDS    BETTER    THAN    TEARS.  187 


How  changed  was  all !  From  the  lips  of  Mr. 
Edwards  fell  no  harsh  and  denunciatory  language 
—  from  his  brow  had  passed  the  deep  lines  of  stern 
anger  or  fiery  indignation.  And  tears  no  longer 
filled  the  eyes  or  glistened  on  the  cheeks  of  Mrs. 
Edwards  —  in  her  tranquil  face  the  anguish  of  a 
hopeless  sorrow  was  not  seen.  Truthful  words, 
though  harshly  sounding,  had  been  far  better  for 
them  than  weak  sympathy  or  idle  tears. 

And  now  they  were  in  a  better  state  to  meet  the 
great  sorrow  and  disappointment  of  their  lives,  and 
to  extract  from  the  cup  both  they  and  their  child 
would  be  called  to  drink  whatever  of  sweetness  yet 
mingled  in  the  bitter  potion. 

The  marriage  of  Lucy  was  not  a  wise  one.  It  in- 
volved so  many  incongruous  elements  that  happiness, 
in  her  new  relation,  was  a  thing  impossible.  Yet, 
in  the  forgiveness  of  her  parents  and  in  their  tender 
sympathies,  she  found  a  strength  to  endure  and 
bravery  to  meet  her  life-duties,  from  which,  but  for 
this,  she  would  have  fainted  and  fallen  by  the  way. 

Anger  towards  the  erring  and  the  disobedient 
springs  from  a  selfish  feeling  ;  forgiveness  is  the 
godlike  spirit  that  loves  out  of  itself,  and  blesses 
all  upon  whom  it  desires  a  blessing. 

(o) —  . fo) 


188  OUR    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 


OUR    OLD    HOMESTEAD. 


WHEN  first  the  skies  grow  warm  and  bright, 

And  flash  with  gold  the  hours, 
And,  in  her  pale,  faint  robes,  the  spring 

Is  calling  up  the  flowers,  — 
When  children  with  unslippered  feet 

Go  forth  with  hearts  of  glee 
To  the  straight  and  even  furrows 

Where  the  yellow  corn  must  be,  — 
What  a  beautiful  imbodiment 

Of  ease,  devoid  of  pride, 
Is  the  good  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  doors  still  open  wide ! 

But  when  the  happiest  time  is  come 

That  to  the  year  belongs, 
Of  uplands  bright  with  harvest  gold, 

And  meadows  full  of  songs,  — 
When  fields  of  yet  unripened  corn, 

And  daily  garnering  stores, 
Remind  the  thrifty  husbandman 

Of  ampler  threshing  floors,  — 


=® 

OUR    OLD    HOMESTEAD.  189 


How  pleasant,  from  the  din  and  dust 

Of  the  thoroughfare  aloof, 
Seems  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  steep  and  mossy  roof ! 

When  home  the  woodman  plods,  with  axe 

Upon  his  shoulder  swung, 
And  in  the  knotted  apple  tree 

Are  scythe  and  sickle  hung,  — 
When  light  the  swallows  twitter 

'Neath  the  rafters  of  the  shed, 
And  the  table  in  the  ivied  porch 

With  decent  care  is  spread,  — 
The  hearts  are  lighter  and  freer 

Than  beat  in  the  populous  town, 
In  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  gables  sharp  and  brown. 

When  the  flowers  of  summer  perish 

In  the  cold  and  bitter  rain, 
And  the  little  birds  with  weary  wings 

Have  gone  across  the  main,  — 
When  curls  the  blue  smoke  upward 

Towards  the  bluer  sky, 
And  cold  along  the  naked  hills 

And  white  the  snow  drifts  lie,  — 
In  legends  of  love  and  glory 

They  forget  the  cloud  and  storm 
In  the  old-fashioned  homestead, 

With  hearthstone  ample  and  warm. 


190  THE    MARRIAGE    RELATION. 


THE   MARRIAGE   RELATION. 

THERE  is  no  relation  of  a  temporal  nature  so 
vastly  important  to  the  best  interests  of  humanity 
as  the  marriage  relation,  whether  we  contemplate 
those  interests  with  reference  to  the  parties  imme- 
diately concerned  in  the  union,  or  the  happiness  of 
those  in  whose  society  they  mingle  after  its  consum- 
mation. 

We  look  upon  the  man  or  woman  entering  into 
this  relation  as  possessing  an  influence  a  thousand 
fold  greater,  either  for  good  or  evil,  than  ever 
before.  Hence  the  importance  of  thought  and  re- 
flection, congeniality  of  mind,  and  similarity  of  dis- 
position, before  assuming  the  responsibilities  of 
husbands  and  wives,  in  the  formation  of  a  union 
authorized  by  an  institution  divinely  appointed  — 
a  union  more  sacred,  tender,  and  endearing  than 
that  which  the  child  sustains  to  the  parent. 

"For  this  cause  shall  a  man  leave  father  and 
mother,  and  shall  cleave  to  his  wife ;  and  they  twain 


THE    MARRIAGE    RELATION.  191 

shall  be  one  flesh."  The  sentiments  already  ex- 
pressed harmonize  with  this  declaration  of  holy 
writ,  and  impress  the  mind  at  once  with  the  impor- 
tance of  judicious  care  and  wise  discretion  in  the 
selection  of  one  as  a  companion  whose  disposition, 
sympathies,  moral  and  intellectual  qualifications,  will 
tend  to  increase  the  enjoyment  of  domestic  life  and 
lessen  its  sorrows.  In  order  to  do  this,  the  parties 
seeking  this  union  should  study  carefully  each  other's 
dispositions.  Will  the  distinguishing  traits  of  their 
minds  blend  in  harmony,  so  as  to  warrant  a  union  of 
the  kind  desirable,  as  a  means  of  increasing  enjoy- 
ment? Upon  the  settlement  of  this  question  de- 
pend the  present  well  being  of  the  parties  concerned, 
and  the  good  of  community,  in  proportion  to  the 
realization  and  promotion  of  sound  morality  through 
the  united  instrumentality  of  husband  and  wife. 

Hasty  marriages,  then,  should  be  avoided  as  un- 
necessary, and  oftentimes  highly  injurious  to  peace 
and  abiding  prosperity.  It  requires  time  and  care, 
caution  and  wisdom,  imbodied  in  a  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  to  perceive  and  understand  the  ele- 
ments of  mind  as  developed  and  strengthened  by  the 
influences  of  early  associations,  education,  habits, 
wealth,  and  previous  standing  in  society,  —  and  de- 
termine from  that  perception,  and  the  knowledge 


192  THE    MARRIAGE    RELATION. 

thus  gained,  whether  there  will  be  a  corresponding 
harmony  in  efforts  for  the  mutual  edification  and 
constantly  increasing  happiness  of  those  who  seek 
an  alliance  as  partners  for  life. 

Personal  beauty,  external  attractions,  such  as 
wealth  and  mere  intellectual  attainments,  a  faculty 
to  please  and  elicit  applause,  should  not  serve  as  the 
only  governing  motives  in  the  selection  of  a  husband 
or  wife.  There  are  other  considerations,  vastly  more 
important  and  a  thousand  times  more  weighty,  which 
claim  the  attention  above  and  beyond  all  others. 
"  ''Tis  the  mind  that  makes  the  man,"  was  the  lan- 
guage of  Pope,  the  truthfulness  of  which  has  never 
been  questioned. 

"Whose  adorning,  let  it  not  be  that  outward 
adorning  of  plaiting  the  hair,  and  of  wearing  of 
gold,  or  of  putting  on  of  apparel ;  but  let  it  be  the 
hidden  man  of  the  heart,  in  that  which  is  not  cor- 
ruptible, even  the  ornament  of  a  meek  and  quiet 
spirit,  which  is  in  the  sight  of  God  of  great  price," 
was  the  language  of  uninspired  Peter. 

The  mind,  beautified  with  the  ornaments  of  good- 
ness, love,  virtue,  meekness,  quietness,  patience,  for- 
bearance, mercy,  and  modesty,  possesses  an  influence 
illuminating,  elevating,  and  happifying  in  its  tenden- 
cies. Like  the  brightness  of  the  sun,  extending 


THE    MARRIAGE    RELATION.  193 

farther  and  spreading  wider  as  its  emanating  source 
rises  higher  in  the  heavens,  revealing  the  God- 
created  glories  of  surrounding  scenery,  this  influence, 
radiating  through  the  moral  ornaments  of  the  mind, 
smiles  upon  the  domestic  hearthstone,  and  runs 
throughout  the  happy  household,  harmonizing  the 
feelings,  increasing  the  affections,  forgiving  and 
forgetting  the  word  unkindly  spoken. 

Go  into  the  family  of  the  gentleman  and  lady  who 
have  thus  understandingly  entered  into  the  marriage 
relation,  and  how  soon  we  perceive  the  perfection  of 
earthly  enjoyment !  The  sweet  smile  of  content- 
ment reposes  upon  the  brow  of  each.  No  angry 
words  efface  it  or  cloud  its  brightness.  They  know 
how  and  exhibit  a  willingness  to  suppress  the  un- 
pleasant thoughts  that  may  sometimes  find  way  into 
the  heart,  or  recall  the  harshly  uttered  word.  With 
this  disposition  on  the  part  of  each  to  cherish  and 
manifest  a  spirit  of  kindness  and  good  will,  to  avoid 
contention,  and  to  overlook  each  other's  seeming 
faults,  they  walk  in  flowery  paths.  External  beauty 
may  not  attract  the  eye,  wealth  and  luxury  may  not 
adorn  their  dwelling,  nor  influence  false  and  decep- 
tive friends  to  court  their  favor  ;  but,  what  is  far 
better  and  infinitely  more  desirable,  the  cup  of 
domestic  happiness  sparkles  with  the  bright  gems  of 

13 


194  THE    MARRIAGE    RELATION. 

true  contentment  and  unsullied  joys.  Thus  they 
live,  one  in  mind,  one  in  interest,  one  in  feeling,  and 
one  in  affection.  This  reciprocity  of  feeling  in  the 
duties,  joys,  and  sorrows  of  their  station  verifies  the 
words  of  Christ,  "  and  they  twain  shall  be  one 
flesh."  "  Keeping  the  unity  of  the  spirit  in  the 
bonds  of  peace,"  their  lives  are  pleasant,  their  home 
peaceful  and  interesting,  and  their  union  in  a  world 
where  death  shall  never  more  sunder  the  ties  of 
domestic  love,  glorious  and  eternal. 

And  when  the  spoiler  of  man's  earthly  hopes  and 
comforts  brings  the  grave  between  them,  the  hour 
of  parting  is  rendered  less  sorrowful  by  the  remem- 
brances of  mutual  kindnesses.  Pleasant  memories 
of  the  past  impart  a  sacredness  to  the  loved  one's 
resting-place,  causing  tears  of  love  and  fond  affec- 
tion for  many  a  year  to  fall  upon  the  flowers  that 
bloom  in  mournful  beauty  over  the  dead.  O,  if  there 
is  a  place  on  earth  enchantingly  lovely  that  angels 
may  with  pleasure  visit,  and  the  virtuous  admire,  it 
must  be  the  home  of  those  "whose  hearts,  and 
faith,  and  hopes  are  one." 


THE    HARVEST    HOME.  195 


THE    HARVEST    HOME. 


GOD  of  the  rolling  year  !  to  thee 

Our  songs  shall  rise,  whose  bounty  pours, 
In  many  a  goodly  gift,  with  free 

And  liberal  hand,  our  autumn  stores  ; 
No  firstlings  of  our  flock  we  slay, 

No  soaring  clouds  of  incense  rise, 
But  on  thy  hallowed  shrine  we  lay 

Our  grateful  hearts  in  sacrifice. 

Borne  on  thy  breath,  the  lap  of  spring 

Was  heaped  with  many  a  blooming  flower ; 
And  smiling  summer  joyed  to  bring 

The  sunshine  and  the  gentle  shower*; 
And  autumn's  rich  luxuriance  now, 

The  ripening  seed,  the  bursting  shell, 
The  golden  sheaf  and  ladened  bough, 

The  fulness  of  thy  bounty  tell. 

No  menial  throng,  in  princely  dome, 

Here  wait  a  titled  lord's  behest, 
But  many  a  fair  and  peaceful  home 

Hath  won  thy  peaceful  dove  a  guest ; 


Cor- 


f 

.       196  THE   HARVEST    HOME. 

No  groves  of  palm  our  fields  adorn, 
No  myrtle  shades  our  orange  bowers, 

But  rustling  sheaves  of  golden  corn 
And  fields  of  waving  grain  are  ours. 

Safe  in  thy  care,  the  landscape  o'er, 

Our  flocks  and  herds  securely  stray ; 
No  tyrant  master  claims  our  store, 

No  ruthless  robber  rends  away ; 
No  fierce  volcano's  withering  shower, 

No  fell  simoon,  with  poisonous  breath, 
Nor  burning  sun,  with  baleful  power, 

Awake  the  fiery  plagues  of  death. 

And  here  shall  rise  our  song  to  Thee, 

"Where  lengthened  vale  and  pastures  lie, 
And  streams  go  singing  mild  and  free, 

Beneath  a  blue  and  smiling  sky  ; 
Where  ne'er  was  reared  a  mortal  throne, 

Where  crowned  oppressors  never  trod, 
Here  at  the  throne  of  heaven  alone 

Shall  man  in  reverence  bow  to  God. 


LITTLE    BENNIE.  197 


LITTLE    BENNIE. 


WE  shall  see  him  no  more.  It  seems  but  yester- 
day we  held  him  on  our  knee,  and  listened  to  his 
lively  prattle.  Then  his  eye  sparkled  with  joy ; 
then  the  rose  of  health  bloomed  upon  his  cheek,  and 
his  light  hair  was  parted  on  his  forehead.  Then  we 
felt  sure  that  he  must  live  and  gladden  our  heart 
with  his  presence  for  many  a  year.  Memory  and 
hope  pictured  him  grown  to  manhood,  the  joy  and 
pride  of  our  being.  We  remember  how  he  used  to 
mount  upon  our  knee,  and  how  confidingly  he  would 
lie  in  our  lap.  When  we  opened  the  door,  how  he 
ran  to  meet  us!  How  happy  when  we  came,  and 
how  sad  when  we  went  away !  We  felt  that  others 
might  be  bereaved  of  their  children  —  we  knew  that 
others  had  been  ;  but  our  loved  one  could  not  die. 
Thus  we  thought  of  little  Bennie.  But,  alas !  the 
angel  of  death  came  to  our  home,  and  touched  our 
boy  with  his  ashy  pinion.  He  sealed  his  eyelids,  and 
took  him  away.  Never  before  had  we  known  what 


198  LITTLE    BEXXIE. 


death  wag.  But  now  have  we  been  taught  the  sad 
lesson  ;  now  have  we  tasted  of  the  bitter  cup.  That 
face  whose  smiles  we  have  often  sought,  those 
little  hands  that  have  so  often  been  folded  in  our 
own,  are  no  more. 

Come  and  see  where  we  have  laid  our  boy.  Yon- 
der is  his  grave,  covered  with  the  verdure  and 
fragrant  with  the  breath  of  summer  ;  here  lies  that 
form  so  dear  to  our  hearts.  We  stand  beside  the 
place  of  our  darling's  rest.  While  we  muse,  the 
rays  of  the  sun  are  sweetly  falling,  and  the  tall 
grass  is  gracefully  waving  in  the  morning  light. 
Here  shall  the  earliest  carol  of  the  bird  be  heard  ; 
here  shall  the  yellow  "buttercup  and  the  modest 
daisy  lift  their  dewy  heads  ;  here  shall  they  wel- 
come our  coming  with  their  sunniest  smile.  Upon 
the  green  turf  that  covers  our  boy  the  flowers  of 
memory  and  affection  shall  ever  grow. 

Little  Bennie  was  not  ours,  but  His,  and  He  but 
loaned  him  for  a  little  while.  We  have  but  resigned 
him  again  to  Him,  who  will  keep  him  for  us.  He 
has  passed  away,  and  we  mourn  his  loss  ;  and  yet  we 
would  not  be  selfish.  We  would  remember  the 
Father's  claim  to  his  child.  All  we  ask  is,  that  we 
may  meet  our  boy  in  heaven. 


CARUY   ME    HOME    TO    DIE.  199 


CARRY    ME    HOME    TO    DIE. 


0,  CAKUY  me  back  to  my  childhood's  home, 

Wh6re  ocean  surges  roar, 
Y/here  its  billows  dash  on  a  rock-bound  coast, 

And  moan  forever  more. 
I'm  pining  away  in  a  stranger's  land, 

Beneath  a  stranger's  eye  ; 
O,  carry  me  home,  O,  carry  me  home, 

0,  carry  me  home  to  die  ! 

Then  let  me  rest  in  a  peaceful  grave, 

Beside  the  loved  and  dead  ; 
For  the  quiet  earth  is  the  only  place 

To  rest  my  weary  head. 
I  would  sweetly  sleep,  if  you  buried  me  there, 

Beneath  my  country's  sky ; 
0,  carry  me  home,  O,  carry  me  home, 

O,  carry  me  home  to  die  ! 


200  INFLUENCE    OF    AN    TJNKIXD    WORD. 


INFLUENCE  OF  AN  UNKIND  WORD. 

INCIDENTS  trifling  in  themselves  often  have  an 
important  influence  in  determining  the  character  of 
a  life.  A  word  spoken  in  season,  a  cruel  taunt, 
wounding  the  heart  to  its  core,  have  been  the  turn- 
ing points  in  destiny,  and  put  a  young  mind  on  the 
high  road  to  fortune,  or  sent  it  downward  to  ruin. 
Almost  every  person  can  recall  some  occurrence  in 
early  life  which  gave  tone  and  impulse  to  effort,  and 
imbued  the  mind  with  principles  whose  influence  is 
even  now  controlling.  We  give  place  to  the  follow- 
ing true  narrative,  as  an  illustration  of  this  fact, 
and  because  it  inculcates  a  truth  which  every  man, 
woman,  and  child  may  profitably  bear  in  mind. 

Years  -ago,  when  I  was  a  boy,  it  was  customary, 
and  probably  is  now  to  some  extent  among  district 
schools  in  the  country,  to  have  spelling  schools  dur- 
ing the  winter  term.  These  gatherings  were  always 
anticipated  with  great  interest  by  the  scholars,  as  at 
those  times  was  to  be  decided  who  was  the  best 
speller.  Occasionally,  one  school  would  visit  an- 


INFLUENCE    OF   AN    UNKIND    WORD.  201 

other  for  a  test  of  scholarship  in  this  regard.  Ah, 
how  the  little  hearts  would  throb,  and  big  ones 
thump,  in  their  anxiety  to  beat  the  whole. 

Once  on  a  time  a  neighboring  school  sent  word 
to  ours,  that  on  a  certain  day  in  the  afternoon  they 
would  meet  in  our  school  house  for  one  of  these  con- 
tests. As  the  time  was  short,  most  of  the  other 
studies  were  suspended,  and  at  school  and  at  home, 
in  the  evenings,  all  hands  were  studying  to  master 
the  monosyllables,  dissyllables,  polysyllables,  abbre- 
viations, &c.,  which  the  spelling  books  contained. 

At  length  the  day  arrived,  and  as  our  visitors 
were  considered  rather  our  superiors,  our  fears  and 
anxieties  were  proportionately  great.  The  scholars 
•««re  ranged  in  a  standing  position,  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  house,  and  the  words  pronounced  to 
each  side  alternately,  and  the  scholar  that  "  missed  " 
was  to  sit  down  ;  his  game  was  up. 

It  did  not  take  long  to  thin  the  ranks  on  both 
sides.  In  a  short  time  our  school  had  but  eight  on 
the  floor,  and  theirs  but  six.  After  a  few  rounds 
the  contest  turned  in  their  favor,  as  they  had  four 
standing  to  our  two.  For  a  long  time  it  seemed 
as  though  these  six  had  the  book  "  by  heart."  At 
length  the  number  was  reduced  to  one  on  each  side. 
Our  visitors  were  represented  by  an  accomplished 


202  INFLUENCE    OP   AN    UNKIND    WORD. 

young  lady,  whose  parents  had  recently  arrived  in 
town,  and  ours  by  myself,  a  ragged  little  boy  of  ten 
summers,  who  had  set  up  night  after  night,  while  my 
mother,  with  no  other  light  than  that  produced  by 
pine  knots,  pronounced  my  lessons  to  me.  The  in- 
terest of  the  spectators  was  excited  to  the  highest 
pitch,  as  word  after  word  was  spelled  by  each.  At 
length  the  young  lady  missed,  and  I  stood  alone. 
Her  teacher  said  she  did  not  understand  the  word. 
She  declared  she  did  ;  that  the  honor  was  mine,  and 
that  I  richly  deserved  it.  That  was  a  proud  moment 
for  me.  I  had  spelled  down  both  schools,  and  was 
declared  victor.  My  cheeks  burned,  and  my  brain 
was  dizzy  with  excitement. 

Soon  as  the  school  was  dismissed,  my  competitress 
came  arid  sat  down  by  my  side,  and  congratulated 
me  on  my  success,  inquired  my  name  and  age,  and 
flatteringly  predicted  my  future  success  in  life. 

Unaccustomed  to  such  attentions,  I  doubtless  acted, 
as  most  little  boys  would  under  such  circumstance.-, 
injudiciously.  At  this  juncture,  Master  G.,  the  son 
of  the  rich  man  of  our  neighborhood,  tauntingly 
said'  to  me,  in  the  presence  of  my  fair  friend  and. a 
number  of  boys  from  the  other  school,  "0,  you 
needn't  feel  so  big  —  your  folks  are  poor,  and  your 
father  is  a  drunkard." 


INFLUENCE    OF   AN    UNKIND    WORD.  203 

I  was  happy  no  more  —  I  was  a  drunkard's  son  — 
and  how  could  I  look  my  new  friends  in  the  face  ? 
My  heart  seemed  to  rise  up'  in  my  throat,  and  almost 
suffocated  me.  The  hot  tears  scalded  my  eyes,  but 
I  kept  them  back,  and  soon  as  possible  quietly 
slipped  away  from  my  companions,  procured  my 
dinner  basket,  and,  unobserved,  left  the  scene  of  my 
triumph  and  disgrace,  with  a  heavy  heart,  for  my 
home.  But  such  a  home !  "  my  folks  were  poor,  and 
my  father  was  a  drunkard."  But  why  should  I  be 
reproached  for  that?  I  could  not  prevent  my 
father's  drinking,  and,  assisted  and  encouraged  by 
my  mother,  I  had  done  all  I  could  to  keep  my  place 
in  my  class  at  school,  and  to  assist  her  in  her  worse 
than  widowhood. 

Boy  as  I  was,  I  inwardly  resolved  never  to  taste 
of  liquor,  and  that  I  would  show  Master  G.,  if  I 
was  a  drunkard's  son,  I  would  yet  stand  as  high  as 
he  did.  But  all  my  resolves  could  not  allay  the 
gnawing  grief  and  vexation  produced  by  his  taunt- 
ing words  and  haughty  manner. 

In  this  frame  of  mind  —  my  head  and  heart  ach- 
ing, my  eyes  red  and  swollen  —  I  reached  home. 
My  mother  saw  at  once  that  I  was  in  trouble,  and 
inquired  the  cause.  I  buried  my  face  in  her  lap,  and 
burst  into  tears.  Mother,  seeing  my  grief,  waited 


204  INFLUENCE    OP   AN    UNKIND    WORD. 

until  I  was  more  composed,  when  I  told  her  what 
had  happened,  and  added,  passionately,  "I  wi.^h 
father  wouldn't  be  a  drunkard,  so  we  could  be  re- 
spected as  other  folks."  At  first  mother  seemed 
almost  overwhelmed,  but  quickly  rallying,  said, — 

"My  son,  I  feel  very  sorry  for  you,  and  regret 
that  your  feelings  have  been  so  injured.  G.  has 
twitted  you  about  things  you  cannot  help.  But 
never  mind,  my  son.  Be  always  honest ;  never 
taste  a  drop  of  intoxicating  liquor  ;  study  and  im- 
prove your  mind.  Depend  on  your  own  energies, 
trusting  in  God,  and  you  will,  if  your  life  is  spared, 
make  a  useful  and  respected  man.  I  wish  your 
father,  when  sober,  could  have  witnessed  this  scene, 
and  realized  the  sorrow  his  course  brings  on  us  all. 
But  keep  a  brave  heart,  my  son.  Remember  you 
are  responsible  only  for  your  own  faults.  Pray  God 
to  keep  you,  and  do  not  grieve  for  the  thoughtless 
and  unkind  reproaches  that  may  be  cast  on  you  on 
your  father's  account." 

This  lesson  of  my  blessed  mother,  I  trust,  was  not 
lost  upon  me.  Nearly  forty  years  have  passed  since 
that  day,  and  I  have  passed  many  trying  scenes ;  but 
none  ever  made  so  strong  an  impression  on  my  feel- 
ings as  that  heartless  remark  of  G's.  It  was  so 
unjust  and  so  uncalled  for !  Now,  boys,  remember 


INFLUENCE    OF   AN   UNKIND    WORD.  205 

always  to  treat  your  mates  with  kindness.  Never 
indulge  in  taunting  remarks  towards  any  one,  and 
remember  that  the  son  of  a  poor  man,  and  even 
of  a  drunkard,  may  have  sensibilities  as  keen  as 
your  own. 

But  there  is  another  part  to  this  story.  The  other 
day,  a  gentleman  called  at  my  place  of  business,  and 
asked  if  I  did  not  recognize  him.  I  told  him  I  did 
not.  "  Do  you  remember,"  said  he,  "  of  being  at  a 
spelling  school  at  a  certain  time,  and  a  rude,  thought- 
less boy  twitting  you  of  poverty,  and  being  a  drunk- 
ard's son  ?  "  "I  do  most  distinctly,"  said  I.  "  Well," 
continued  the  gentleman,  "I  am  that  boy.  There 
has  not,  probably,  a  month  of  my  life  passed  since 
then  but  I  have  thought  of  that  remark  with  regret 
and  shame  ;  and  as  I  am  about  leaving  for  Califor- 
nia, perhaps  to  end  my  days  there,  I  could  not  go 
without  first  calling  on  you,  and  asking  your  forgive- 
ness for  that  act."  Boys,  I  gave  him  my  hand  as  a 
pledge  of  forgiveness.  Did  I  do  right  ?  You  all 
say,  yes.  Well,  then,  let  me  close  as  I  began.  Boys, 
never  twit  another  for  what  he  cannot  help. 


©= 


206  CREATION'S  WORK  is  DONE. 


CREATION'S   WORK   IS    DONE. 


WHEN  half  Creation's  works  were  done, 
Just  formed  the  stars,  the  glowing  sun, 

And  softly  blushing  skies  ; 
And  wide  across  earth's  dewy  lawn 
Gleamed  the  first  glances  of  the  morn, 

And  flowers  began  to  rise  ;  — 

Clad  in  her  robe  of  tender  green, 
Nature  delighted  viewed  the  scene, 

Pleased  with  each  novel  form  ; 
And  from  each  sweetly-blooming  flower, 
From  hill,  and  vale,  and  shady  bower, 

She  culled  some  lovely  charm. 

She  took  the  balmy  violets  blue, 
The  sweet  carnation's  mellow  hue, 

Rich  with  the  tears  of  night,  — 
Though  the  young  beam  of  rising  day 
Had  melted  half  that  tear  away, 

In  the  first  stream  of  light ;  — 

And  now  in  majesty  arrayed, 

Her  last,  her  fairest  work  she  made, 


GOOD    TEMPER.  207 


Almost  a  seraph's  frame  ; 
To  animate  this  form  was  given 
A  gentle  spirit,  sent  from  heaven, 

And  WOMAN  was  her  name  ! 

Hark  !  hark  !  she  speaks,  and  silver  strains, 
Melodious,  floating  o'er  the  plains, 

A  thrilling  joy  impart ; 
A  nightingale  has  caught  the  tone, 
And  made  that  melting  voice  his  own, 

That  vibrates  on  the  heart. 

Fair  Nature  cast  her  glance  around 
The  glowing  sky,  the  flowery  ground, 

The  day-diffusing  sun  ; 
On  woman  last,  her  beauteous  child, 
She  gazed,  and  said,  with  accents  mild, 

"  Creation's  work  is  done." 


GOOD    TEMPER. 


SINCE  trifles  make  the  sum  of  human  things, 
And  half  our  misery  from  our  foibles  springs  ; 
Since  life's  best  joys  consist  in  peace  and  ease, 
And  though  but  few  can  serve,  yet  all  may  please ; 
O,  let  the  ungentle  spirit  learn  from  hence 
A  small  unkindness  is  a  great  offence. 


— foj 


G) 

208  LESSONS    OF   CONTENTMENT. 


LESSONS    OF    CONTENTMENT. 

IT  happened  once  on  a  hot  summer's  day,  says  a 
German  parable,  I  was  standing  over  a  well,  when  a 
little  bird  flew  down,  seeking  water.  There  was, 
indeed,  a  large  trough  near  the  well,  but  it  was 
empty,  and  I  grieved  for  a  moment  to  think  that  the 
little  creature  must  go  away  thirsty  ;  but  it  settled 
upon  the  edge  of  the  trough,  bent  its  little  head  for- 
ward, then  raised  it  again, ^spread  its  wings,  and 
soared  away,  singing  :  its  thirst  was  appeased.  I 
walked  up  to  the  trough,  and  there  in  the  stone 
work  I  saw  a  little  hole  about  the  size  of  a  wren's 
egg.  The  water  left  there  had  been  a  source  of 
revival  and  refreshment ;  it  had  found  enough  for 
the  present,  and  desired  no  more.  This  is  content- 
ment. 

Again,  I  stood  by  a  lovely,  sweet-smelling  flower ; 
and  there  came  a  bee,  humming  and  sucking,  and 
chose  the  flower  for  its  field  of  sweets.  But  the 
flower  had  no  honey.  This  I  knew,  for  it  had  no 
nectary.  What  then,  thought  I,  will  the  bee  do  ? 


LESSONS    OP   CONTENTMENT.  209 

It  came  buzzing  out  of  the  cup,  to  take  a  farther 
flight ;  but  it  spied  the  stamina  full  of  golden  farina, 
good  for  making  wax,  and  it  rolled  its  legs  against 
them  until  they  looked  like  yellow  hose,  as  the  bee 
keepers  say,  and  then,  heavily  laden,  flew  away 
home.  Then  said  I,  "  Thou  earnest  seeking  honey, 
and,  finding  none,  hast  been  satisfied  with  wax,  and 
hast  stored  it  for  thy  house,  that  thy  labor  may  not 
be  in  vain.  This,  likewise,  shall  be  to  me  a  lesson 
of  contentment." 

The  night  is  far  spent  —  the  dark  night  of  trouble 
that  sometimes  threatened  to  close  around  us  ;  but 
the  day  is  at  hand,  and  even  in  the  night  there  are 
stars,  and  I  have  looked  out  on  them  and  been  com- 
forted ;  for  as  one  set,  I  could  always  see  another 
rise  ;  and  each  was  a  lamp,  showing  me  somewhat 
of  the  depth  of  the  riches  of  the  wisdom  and  knowl- 
edge of  God. 


® 


210  THE    HOMEWARD    VOYAGE. 


THE   HOMEWARD   VOYAGE. 


A  TINY  boat  was  launched,  one  morn, 

Upon  a  blue  and  boundless  sea, 
Whose  sparkling  waves  were  pure  and  bright 

As  ocean  wavelets  e'er  could  be. 

A  lovely  child  was  at  the  helm, 
"With  graceful  form  and  merry  eye, 

And  sunny  curls  of  golden  hue, 
Shading  a  forehead  pure  and  high. 

A  joyous  smile  broke  o'er  his  face, 
His  heart  with  hope  was  beating  wild, 

And  angels  bent  from  heaven  above 
To  bless  the  little  fairy  child. 

The  gentle  breezes  fanned  his  brow, 
Glad  sunbeams  nestled  'mid  his  hair, 

Bright  garlands  decked  his  little  barque, 
Woven  of  flowerets  strangely  fair. 

And  from  his  rosebud  mouth  there  broke 

An  infant  carol  wildly  free  ; 
The  burden  of  his  little  lay 

Was,  "  Life  is  beautiful  to  me." 


THE  HOMEWARD  VOYAGE.  211 

• 

The  morn  passed  on,  and  noontide's  heat 

Fell  from  a  clear  and  cloudless  sky 
Upon  the  youth,  who  swiftly  sailed 

With  wearied  frame  and  drooping  eye.  . 

His  song  had  lost  its  merry  tone, 

And  faintly  echoed  o'er  the  sea. 
"  Alas  !  "  he  said,  and  softly  sighed, 

"  Life  is  a  weariness  to  me." 

The  evening  shadows  darkly  fell, 

The  bright  day-god  had  sunk  in  gloom 

Behind  a  mass  of  murky  clouds, 
And  morning's  rosy  light  was  gone.* 

The  boat  had  neared  a  glorious  land, 

Whose  gates  were  pearl,  whose  streets  were  gold, 
Where  angels  bright  with  holy  songs 

Spoke  volumes  ne'er  to  mortals  told. 

The  youth  beheld  the  heavenly  scene 

With  radiant  eye  and  joyous  heart, 
Knowing  that  he  had  neared  a  shore 

From,  whence  he  never  should  depart. 

Into  this  peaceful  port  he  sailed  ; 

And  now  his  song  was  full  and  free, 
As  in  a  glad,  exulting  tone, 

He  warbled,  "  Heaven  is  won  for  me." 


Co)— 


212  GENTLENESS. 


GENTLENESS. 

THIS  is  a  simple  word,  but  full  of  meaning.  Mild- 
ness of  temper,  softness  of  manners,  kindness,  ten- 
derness, meekness,  and  benevolence  are  all  blended 
to  form  true  gentleness  of  character.  But 

"  There  are  those  who  never  knew  one  generous  thought 
Of  kind  endeavor,  or  sweet  sympathy." 

Alas;  what  a  weary  world  would  this  be  if  gentle- 
ness were  banished  from  it !  Discord,  harshness, 
and  contention  would  reign  triumphantly,  the  pleas- 
ures of  society  be  utterly  destroyed,  and  mankind 
would  seek  the  desert  or  the  wilderness  for  quiet 
and  contentment.  The  affections  are  rooted  up  by 
harsh  tones,  and  the  spirits  of  the  sensitive  crushed 
by  unkind  words  from  thoughtless  and  uncharitable 
lips.  How  many  are  the  bitter  fruits  of  such  ele- 
ments of  character !  Strange  that  no  more  is  done, 
no  more  is  said,  to  rid  society  of  such  baneful 
influences. 

'=© 


GENTLENESS.  213 


On  the  contrary,  where  gentleness  is  the  govern- 
ing principle,  society  is  lovely  and  attractive  ;  or  if 
it  rule  a  single  heart,  that  heart  is  like  a  fountain  of 
living  waters,  sending  forth  healthful  streams.  A 
society  thus  governed  is  like  an  oasis  in  the  desert 
of  life,  where  the  weary  traveller  may .  rest  and 
refresh  himself.  Gentle  words  break  the  flinty  heart 
in  twain,  and  open  the  hidden  founts  of  human 
sympathy,  disarm  anger,  and  overcome  wrath.  Who 
has  not  felt  the  power  of  gratitude  expressed  for  a 
simple  favor  bestowed,  and  acknowledged  that  it  is 
indeed  "more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive,"  when 
the  hearty  "  God  bless  you  "  has  come  up  from  tha 
overflowing  bosom?  Gentle  tones  have  power  to 
heal  the  broken  heart,  and  soothe  earth's  sorrows. 
It  is  the  gentle  spirit,  the  contented  disposition,  the 
kind  look,  the  cheerful  answer,  the  unaffected  inter- 
est in  others'  welfare,  that  render  one  a  blessing  to 
community.  All  these  are  signs  of  true  and  gener- 
ous love  to  all  mankind,  and  the  spring  of  that 
mighty  power  that  makes  us  "love  our  neighbor  as 
ourself." 

"  Gentleness  of  manner  does  not  exclude  strength 
of  character."  Those  who  govern. by  gentleness 
alone  exert  a  far  greater  power  than  such  as  rule 
by  other  means.  Impatience  and  fretfulness  injnro 


214  GENTLENESS. 


the  affections  and  harden  the  heart ;  while  gentle- 
ness subdues  the  most  stubborn  will.  A  look  of 
gentle,  firm  reproof  will  penetrate  the  soul  and 
make  ii  weep  for  shame.  0,  say  not,  "  There  is  no 
power  in  gentle  words." 

There  is  gentleness  in  nature.  Though  the  moun- 
tain stream  is  noble  as  it  bursts  in  grandeur  from 
its  vantage  ground,  and  strength  is  in  its  gleam  of 
brightness,  and  thunder  in  its  deafening  roar,  yet 
lovelier  far  is  the  streamlet  as  it  gently  murmurs  by 
the  lone  churchyard,  and  by  its  dirge-like  melody 
speaks  its  modest  worth  and  living  beauty  —  fit 
emblem  of  true  gentleness. 

The  proud  ocean,  heaving  with  convulsion  when 
the  furious  tempest  spends  its  strength  upon  its 
waters,  fills  our  souls  with  awe  and  wonder,  and  we 
fear  and  dread  its  wrath.  But  when  its  waters 
gently  rock  proud  vessels  that  sail  on  her  bosom, 
we  love  to  sing  "  Beautiful  Sea,"  and  never  tire  of 
gazing  on  its  deep,  blue  waters. 

The  roar  of  the  angry  lion  and  the  screams  of 
the  hungry  panther  may  fill  the  heart  with  fear ; 
but  we  love  the  sweet,  gentle  strains  of  the  feathered 
songsters,  rejoicing  in  their  being. 

We  listen  to  the  orator's  bold  figures,  and  feel 
emotions  rising  in  our  bosoms  in  obedience  to  hi? 


NEVER   RAIL    AT    THE    WORLD.  215 

will  ;  but  we  love  the  gentle  strain  of  infant  voices, 
and  find  our  hearts  subdued  by  the  magic  of  their 
power. 

Woman  needs  the  elements  of  gentleness  instilled 
into  her  nature,  else  she  falls  far  short  of  filling  the 
place  her  God  assigned  for  her.  She  may,  without 
it,  be  admired  for  wit,  beauty,  and  intelligence ;  but 
never  can  she  hold  the  sway  of  the  affections,  if  this 
most  important  element  be  wanting,  or  make  her 
home  the  nursery  of  happiness  and  love. 


NEVER  RAIL  AT  THE  WORLD. 


NEVER  rail  at  the  world  —  it  is  just  as  we  make  it ; 

"We  see  not  the  flower  if  we  see  not  the  seed  ; 
And  as  for  ill  luck,  why,  its  just  as  we  take  it ; 

The  heart  that's  in  earnest  no  bars  can  impede. 
You  question  the  justice  which  governs  man's  breast, 

And  say  that  the  search  for  true,  friendship  is  vain  ; 
But  remember,  this  world,  though  it  be  not  the  best, 

Is  next  to  the  best  we  shall  ever  attain. 


(p) 


216  O,    HASTEN'    OX,    YE    WIXGED    HOURS. 


0,  HASTEN  ON,  YE  WINGED  HOURS. 


O,  HASTEN  on,  ye  winged  hours ! 

I  yearn  once  more  to  see 
The  valley  of  my* childhood's  home, 

The  mountains,  and  the  lea  ; 
The  feathery  groves  that  crown  the  hills, 

Or  droop  beside  the  stream, 
The  silvery  brooks,  the  murmuring  rills, 

"Where  downy  violets  gleam  ; 
The  winding  path  beside  the  lake, 

Where  water-lilies  float, 
And  spread  at  eve  their  stainless  sails, 

Like  some  sweet  fairy  boat 

The  dark -gray  rocks  that  raise  their  heads 

Far  up  the  mountain  side, 
The  gentle  stream  that  winds  below 

Like  a  clinging,  timid  bride. 
All,  all  my  spirit  pines  to  see  — 

Each  spot  within  that  vale, 
Each  looming  crag,  each  mossy  stone, 

Each  verdant,  smiling  dale  : 


MARY'S  DIRGE.  217 


Then  hasten  on,  ye  winged  hours, 
And  o'er  the  swelling  sea 

O,  safely  launch  and  guide  my  bark 
Until  thus  blest  I  be. 


MARK'S    DIRGE, 


Tis  now  the  month  of  light  and  bloom, 

The  month  of  many  r&ses  ; 
I  heed  it  not.     The  silent  tomb 

Our  sweetest  flower  encloses. 

The  sun  upon  the  bright  blue  streams 
Throws  many  a  golden  arrow  ; 

But  Mary's  eye  no  longer  beams  — 
The  tomb  is  dark  and  narrow. 

The  winds  are  playing  through  the  trees 
That  fringe  the  proud  old  river ; 

Our  Mary's  voice  was  like  the  breeze  — 
And  that  is  stilled  forever ! 


<§) 

218  INCENSE    FROM    THE    FAMILY   ALTAR. 


INCENSE  FROM  THE  FAMILY  ALTAR. 

WHAT  can  be  more  beautifully  appropriate  than 
the  worship  of  God  in  families  ! 

Here  is  a  little  company  of  human  beings  joined 
together  in  the  most  intimate  connection  —  dwelling 
under  one  roof,  fed  at  one  table,  supplied  with  the 
necessaries  of  life  from  sources  of  income  that  are 
common  to  them  all ;  feeling  themselves  to  have  alto- 
gether common  interests,  common  wants,  and  com- 
mon exposures.  It  is  granted  that  they  all  ought  to 
worship  God  ;  is  it  not  appropriate  that  they  should 
worship  him  together  ?  Each  of  them  ought  to 
thank  God  for  his  daily  food,  and  daily  to  ask  God 
for  the  needed  supply.  But  the  family  take  their 
meals  together.  It  is  supplied  from  a  common 
store,  and  spread  upon  a  common  table,  and  the 
daily  gatherings  around  that  table  are  the  recog- 
nized symbol  of  their  close  intimacy.  Is  there  any 
other  scene  which  ought  to  be  sanctified  with  prayer, 
if  not  that  where  a  family  most  frequently  look  in 


INCENSE    FRO5I    THE   FAMILY   ALTAR.  219 

each  other's  faces  —  where  the  responsible  providers 
distribute  the  liberal  provision  —  where  parental 
love  lavishes  itself  upon  its  tender  objects  —  and 
where  the  children  not  only  have  their  bodies  nur- 
tured, but  their  minds  and  manners  cultivated  ? 

A  prayerless  family  meal  is  a  most  unchristian,  a 
most  ungodly  thing  ;  and  seldom  does  that  graceless 
spirit  whose  plainest  name  is  Fashion,  show  her  im- 
piety more  plainly  than  when,  at  a  social  entertain- 
ment, she  whispers  that,  as  the  family  table  would 
be  too  narrow  for  so  numerous  a  company,  so  the 
family  custom  of  giving  thanks  at  the  table  is  too 
homely  for  so  splendid  an  occasion  ;  just  as  if  the 
larger  and  costlier  provision  did  not  need  the 
divine  blessing,  and  did  not  call  for  thanks,  as  much 
as  the  ordinary  meal ;  and  just  as  if  an  unblest 
meal,  partaken  by  a  numerous  company  scattered 
through  the  ample  spaces  of  a  parlor,  were  any 
more  Christian  than  the  same  thing  at  an  ordinary 
table. 

Nor  is  it  only  at  the  table  that  families  should 
worship.  Sheltered  by  one  roof,  the  family  have 
laid  them  down  in  peace  and  slept,  and  awoke  in 
safety,  because  the  Lord  has  sustained  them.  Com- 
ing from  their  several  chambers,  they  meet  and 
exchange  their  affectionate  salutations,  glad  to  feel 

—=(r: 


220  INCEN7SE    FROM    THE    FAMILY   ALTAR. 

"  We  are  all  here."  It  is  a  common  protection  they 
have  shared.  They  have  together  been  kept  from 
the  assassin,  from  the  fire,  from  the  "  pestilence  that 
walketh  in  darkness."  Should  not  they  kneel  to- 
gether, and  give  thanks  to  their  heavenly  Guardian  ? 
They  are  going  forth,  too,  in  duties,  and  to  dangers, 
and  they  need  a  common  guidance  ;  shall  they  not 
ask  for  it  together?  And  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
have  they  not  equal  reasons  for  united  prayer  and 
thanksgiving  ?  They  have  all  been  led  and  kept  by 
one  Providence,  and  they  all  need  to  commit  them- 
selves to  one  divine  Guardian.  On  both  occasions 
it  is  appropriate,  besides  the  prayer,  to  read  the 
divine  word  together,  and  to  unite,  if  they  are  able, 
in  sacred  song. 

There  will,  of  course,  be  mornings  when  all  have 
|  not  come  from  their  chambers  in  the  glow  and  the 
joy  of  health ;  there  will  be  evenings  when  the 
family  will  sadly  gather,  returning  from  a  new 
grave.  Thenceforth,  at  the  table,  and  at  the  fire- 
side, there  will  be  "  one  vacant  chair."  All  families 
must  have  these  days  of  sorrow.  What  shall  they 
do  with  this  sorrow  ?  To  whom  shall  they  tell  it  ? 
On  whose  friendly  strength  shall  they  lay  it  ?  There 
is  no  such  other  place  for  a  bereaved  family  to 
soothe  and  comfort  themselves  as  their  family  altar. 


INCENSE    FROM    THE    FAMILY   ALTAR.  221 

Is  it  the  father  that  is  gone  ?  Nowhere  else  will 
they  find  such  comfort  as  kneeling,  in  their  tears,  at 
the  family  altar,  and  pouring  out  their  prayers  from 
their  broken  hearts,  -through  the  channel,  perhaps, 
of  a  feebler  and  softer  voice  than  that  to  whose 
manly  tones  they  were  accustomed. 

Or  has  one  of  the  little  ones  been  taken  ?  The 
table  must  henceforth  lack  the  light  of  his  happy 
face  —  the  house  will  no  more  ring  to^is  merry 
laugh  ;  but  there  is  no  sweeter  memory,  when  you 
see  the  white  hands  laid  together  on  the  still  breast, 
than  that  you  had  seen  them  folded  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  at  the  giving  of  thanks,  or  on  the  chair  by 
your  side  at  the  daily  worship. 

In  joy  and  sorrow,  amid  all  the  varieties  of  domes- 
tic experience,  they  who  live  together  may  most 
appropriately  and  beneficially  worship  together. 


222  FRIENDSHIP   AND    LOVE. 


FRIENDSHIP    AND    LOVE. 


FRIENDSHIP  is  sweet  to  those 

Who  know  no  purer  gem  ; 
'Tis  like  the  blushing  rose, 

Blown  from  its  tender  stem  ; 
Or  like  the  queen  of  night, 

That  glistens  in  the  sky ; 
Her  ever-fading  light 

Forms  but  a  transient  tie. 

Love  is  a  theme  that  springs 

Pure  in  the  human  heart ; 
'Tis  friendship  decked  with  wings, 

A  bond  no  time  can  part. 
As  the  green  ivy  bowers 

Around  the  old  oak  tree, 
So  Love  outlives  the  flowers 

That  Friendship  culled  for  me. 


=@ 

THE    MIGHT    OF    TRUTH.  223 


THE   MIGHT   OF   TRUTH. 


FROM  out  the  little  fountains 

There  swells  a  mighty  tide, 
Upon  whose  broad,  elastic  back 

The  broods  of  commerce  ride  ; 
And  on  the  winged  tempest 

A  little  seed  there  flies, 
Whose  roots  strike  deep,  whose  giant  arms 

Reach  upward  to  the  skies  ; 
And  so  the  little,  slighted  Truth, 

At  length  more  mighty  grown, 
Shall  fill  the  nations  with  its  power, 

And  make  the  world  its  own. 

There  is  a  flower,  when  trampled  on, 

Doth  still  more  richly  bloom, 
And  even  to  its  bitterest  foe 

Gives  forth  its  sweet  perfume ; 
The  rose  that's  crushed  and  shattered 

Doth  on  the  breeze  bestow 
A  fairer"  scent,  that  farther  goes 

E'en  for  the  cruel  blow. 
And  so  Truth's  crushed  and  trampled  flower, 

By  injury  stronger  grown, 
Shall  win  its  very  foes  to  love, 

And  make  the  world  its  own. 


— @ 

224  SUMMER'S  LAST  SUNSET. 


SUMMER'S    LAST    SUNSET. 


FAR  above  the  rosy  west, 

See  the  summer  sun  is  sinking, 
Warm  and  thirsty,  seeking  rest, 
From  Pacific's  chalice  drinking  ; 
Soon  the  tapestry  of  night 
Gathers  round  his  temples  bright. 

While  the  summer  with  us  stars, 

Bright  the  skies,  and  fresh  the  showers, 
Xiong  and  cheerful  are  the  days, 
Birds  are  warbling  in  the  bowers  ; 
And  when  Eve  her  star  robe  shows, 
Zephyrs  fan  us  to  repose. 

Luscious  fruits  on  bending  trees, 
Redolent  and  gorgeous  flowers, 
'void  crops  waving  in  the  breeze, 
All  declare  his  magic  powers  ; 
Autumn's  purple  clusters,  too, 
And  brown  nuts  to  him  we  owe. 

But  when  Summer  quits  his  rule, 

And  his  wondrous  skill  in  farming, 
Jlfanng  Larvests  iich  and  full, 

To  the  e)O  una  heurt  »nos>;  charming, 

@  ~ •  --------  -=-====© 


CHEER    UP,   BE    NOT   DISCOURAGED    YET.  225 

Soon  the  fields  sad  changes  show, 
For  the  plants  refuse  to  grow. 

Loved  beguiler  of  our  feet, 

Through  the  vale  and  up  the  mountain, 
Who,  when  we  complained  of  heat, 
Slaked  our  thirst  from  mossy  fountain, 
Must  we  bid  a  long  adieu 
To  a  friend  so  kind  and  true  ? 

But  all  praise  to  Him  that  sent 

Summer,  with  its  joys  and  beauty, 
To  escort  us  as  we  went 

Onward  through  the  paths  of  duty, 
With  the  promise  kindly  given 
Of  brighter,  sweeter  scenes  in  heaven. 


CHEEE   UP,   BE  NOT  DISCOURAGED   YET. 


ONCE  on  a  time,  from  scenes  of  light 
An  angel  winged  his  airy  flight ; 
Down  to  this  earth  in  haste  he  came, 
And  wrote,  in  lines  of  living  flame, 
These  words  on  every  thing  he  met : 
"  Cheer  up,  be  not  discouraged  yet !  " 


226  THE    CRUSHED    BUD. 


%  -  THE   CRUSHED   BUD. 

How  many  sad  hours  mothers  may  unwittingly 
bring  to  their  own  home  circle,  by  failing  to  en- 
courage the  confidence  of  their  children  !  Fashion, 
friends,  or  other  ordinary  considerations,  should  not 
excuse  the  mother  from  listening  to  the  mental  wants 
of  her  little  ones ;  and  listening,  she  should  seek 
earnestly  to  sympathize  with  their  ingenuous  natures. 
It  is  not  stooping  to  study  for  the  most  accurate 
replies  to  their  simple  inquiries,  nor  a  waste  of  time 
.to  learn  how  truth  will  appear  most  lovely  to  their 
active,  restless  minds.  "  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the 
waters,  and  thou  shalt  see  it  after  many  days." 

"  Mary,  why  are  there  no  stars  in  the  daytime  ?  " 
said  little  Katie  Grey  to  her  governess,  as  at  twi- 
light she  sat  folded  in  her  embrace  beside  the  open 
casement. 

"  Because,  love,  the  light  that  reaches  us  from  the  i  j 
sun  is  so  much  stronger  than  that  which  comes  to  us  | ' 
from  the  stars,  we  cannot  see  them  in  the  daytime." 

"Then  there  are  stars  in  the  sky  all  the  day  long, 
i  ==<§) 


THE    CRUSHED    BUD.  227 

only  we  do  not  see  them.  Is  that  the  way  it  is, 
Mary  ?  " 

"Yes,  dear;  and  sometimes,  when  the  sun  is 
eclipsed,  —  that  is,  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  some 
other  heavenly  body,  —  stars  may  be  seen  in  the 
daytime." 

After  asking  many  artless  questions,  which  were 
kindly  answered  by  Mary,  little  Katie  nestled  closer 
to  her  heart,  and  thought  and  thought  until  her 
gentle  eyes  closed  in  slumber.  Then  she  dreamed 
brilliant  dreams  of  bright  stars  that,  like  the  angels, 
are  ever  stationed  above  us,  though  we  may  not 
behold  them,  and  was  all  unmindful  of  the  warm 
tears  falling  fast  upon  her  young  head. 

The  governess  wept,  though  not  for  selfish  sorrow, 
but  for  her  little  charge  —  the  sleeper  upon  her 
bosom.  A  few  evenings  before,  Katie  had  asked 
this  same  question  about  the  stars  of  her  mother, 
the  elegant  and  accomplished  Mrs.  Grey.  The  child 
had  been  sitting  silently  on-  the  door  stone  for  a  full 
half  hour,  philosophizing  upon  the  pretty  clouds  and 
fair  stars ;  but  these  were  childish  mysteries  she 
could  not  solve  alone,  and  she  sought  her  mother  to 
ask  of  her ;  but  Mrs.  Grey  was  at  her  toilet,  spar- 
kling in  diamonds  and  beauty,  her  fancy  busy  in  a 

-• 

realm  far  from  Katie's  thoughts.-    The  festal  hour 


(§) 

I 
228  THE    CRUSHED-  BUD. 


and  the  adulation  of  tbe  gay  multitude  preoccupied 
her  mind,  and  making  no  reply  to  her  little  daugh- 
ter, with  an  impatient  gesture  she  bade  her  leave  the 
room,  for  it  was  "  time  that  children  were  asleep," 
she  said.  Katie  burst  into  tears  ;  but  Mary,  who, 
passing  at  that  moment,  heard  the  unthinking  moth- 
er, caught  the  little  girl  to  her  bosom,  and  bore  her 
to  her  own  apartment. 

As  Mrs.  Grey  adjusted  the  last  rosebud  in  her 
beautiful  tresses,  a  deep  blush  overspread  her  hand- 
some features,  which  might  have  been  mistaken  for 
the  glow  of  conscious  loveliness.  Did  it  not  rather 
betray  her  guilt,  and  did  she  not  inly  confess  herself 
unworthy  the  high  trust  which  the  name  of  mother 
implied  ? 

Katie  sobbed  too  violently  to  hear  aught  about 
the  stars  that  night ;  so  the  governess  soothed  her 
with  a  lullaby  until  she  fell  asleep.  The  carriage 
called  for  Mrs.  Grey,  who  hastily  kissed  the  brow 
of  the  sleeping  child,  and  with  that  questionable 
flush  upon  her  face  withdrew.  When  the  sound  of 
wheels  had  died  in  the  distance,  it  grew  very  quiet 
in  that  little  room.  Katie  slept  so  silently,  and  her 
cheek  was  so  very  pale,  any  one  might  have  supposed 

her  breath  had  ceased,  but  for  the  convulsive  sobs 

• 

that  broke  the  stillness  as  Mary  bent  over  her. 
@ =^( 


@  = 

THE    CRUSHED    BUD.  229 

The  governess  was  a  gentle,  pious  girl,  and  she 
prayed  that  pleasing  dreams  might  come  to  the 
slumberer's  pillow  ;  and  as  if  angels  were  hovering 
around  to  answer,  that  little  face  became  radiant 
with  a  placid  smile.  The  sobbing  ceased,  and  the 
shadow  of  the  soul's  "  first  great  grief  "  passed  from 
that  sunny  brow ;  but  Katie  was  not  free  to  tell 
her  pretty  thoughts  in  her  mother's  presence  from 
that  day. 

However,  Mrs.  Grey  seemed  truly  to  regret  hav- 
ing wounded  the  feelings  of  her  little  daughter  ;  still 
she  regarded  her  as  by  far  too  sensitive.  She  was 
confident  that  when  she  was  herself  a  child,  so  slight 
a  thing  would  not  have  troubled  her.  She  thought 
Mr.  Grey  —  to  whom  she  apologetically  related  the 
circumstance  —  "  attached  altogether  too  great  im- 
portance to  a  matter  so  trivial ;  "  she  had  no  doubt 
that  "  Katie  herself  had  already  forgotten  it,"  and 
she  deemed  it  "  very  unwise  to  let  children  regard 
their  wants  as  paramount  to  those  of  older  people." 

Poor  Mrs.  Grey,  you  did  not  think  how  deeply 
Katie's  heart  was  absorbed  in  her  twilight  musings  ; 
how  she  felt  her  soul  expanding  with  newly-awa- 
kened and  sublime  feelings  ;  how  the  confused  inter- 
rogatories of  her  young  mind  were  seeking  to  mould 
themselves  into  form,  so  that  those  great  emotions 


=@ 

230  THE    CRUSHED^BUD. 

should  become  great  thoughts.  Ah,  Mrs.  Grey !  the 
diamonds  were  brilliant  that  glowed  upon  your 
breast  that  night,  but  a  jewel  of  value  untold  was 
spurned  from  your  bosom  when  you  drove  that  little 
one  from  you. 

A  year  passed  away,  and  the  repulsed  affections 
of  the  child  clung  nervously  to  poor  Mary,  for  she 
had  ever  a  gentle  smile  and  a  loving  word.  "With 
delight  almost  maternal  she  watched  the  unfolding 
of  this  "  bud  of  promise  ;"  and  though  she  often 
wearied  of  the  boisterous  plays  of  the  older  chil- 
dren, she  never  deemed  it  a  task  to  talk  with  little 
Katie.  It  was  very  pleasant  to  mark  the  changing 
expression  of  that  lovely  face,  while  listening  to  the 
long,  beautiful  tales  which  Mary  had  learned  just  to 
relate  to  her  darling. 

But  all  this  time  Mrs.  Grey  was  engrossed  with 
things  foreign  from  the  mother's  trust.  She  did  not 
fail  to  congratulate  herself  upon  her  own  good  for- 
tune in  securing  the  services  of  so  trustworthy  an 
individual  to  take  charge  of  her  children  as. Mary; 
and  this  most  perfectly  quieted  the  conscience  of  the 
deluded  woman.  But  Mary  was  too  young  and  frail 
to  sustain  the  weight  of  care  which  she  had  assumed. 
She  grew  pale  and  thin,  and  when  the  physician 
came,  and  said  that  she  must  go  far  away  into  a  land 


THE    CRUSHED    BUD.  231 

of  pleasant  scenes  and  healthful  breezes,  little  Katie 
wept  sorrowfully  ;  yet  she  did  not  realize  that  her 
"  dear,  good  Mary "  would  go  away  and  leave  her 
behind.  But  the  kind  governess  departed,  never  to 
return  to  the  home  of  little  Katie  again.  And  who 
was  now  left  to  answer  the  childish  inquiries  ?  to 
return  the  yearning  love  of  her  susceptible  nature  ? 
Mrs.  Grey  would  fain  have  been  thoughtful,  earnest, 
and  patient  even  as  was  poor  Mary ;  but  she  was 
impulsive,  beautiful,  and  fond  of  display,  which  last 
trait  amounted  to  a  passion,  making  her  selfish  in 
the  extreme,  and  she  could  not  appreciate  the  young 
spirit  whom  God  had  intrusted  to  her  keeping. 

Katie  mourned  piteously  when  her  dear  governess 
was  at  last  gone,  and  for  a  time  sought  no  one  to 
supply  the  place  she  had  left  vacant ;  but  that  little 
busy  mind  could  not  solve  every  question  of  its  own 
propounding,  nor  could  that  warm,  young  heart  beat 
freely  without  a  sharer  in  its  lofty  aspirations. 

Her  father  was  a  highly-cultivated  and  excellent 
man,  but  business  called  him  much  abroad ;  and  he, 
too,  failed  to  apprehend  the  great  want  of  his  little 
daughter.  Katie  found  little  companionship  with 
those  of  her  own  years,  and  though  s^e  often  joined 
heartily  in  their  gay  pastimes,  she  could  not  induce 
them  to  love  that  which  she  most  delighted  in. 
(o)  -  - 


@  = 

232  THE    CRUSHED    BUD. 


One  bland  spring  morning,  when  the  air  seemed 
permeated  with  coloring  of  peach  blossoms  and  lilac 
flowers,  and  zephyrs  were  gay  with  the  new  life  of 
young  buds  and  green  leaves,  Katie  Grey  bent  fond- 
ly above  a  bed  of  fresh-blown  violets,  as  if  spell- 
bound by  their  humble  beauty.  She  would  have 
deemed  it  sacrilege  to  sever  one  from  its  tender 
stem,  and  thus  destroy  the  life  of  aught  so  lovely. 
Now  the  warm  blood  rushed  to  her  temples,  and  the 
little  hands  were  pressed  convulsively  against  her 
brow  ;  anon  that  beautiful  face  grew  pale,  and  then 
it  was  flushed  again  ;  strong  emotions  were  agitating 
her  young  breast.  Was  she  in  converse  with  those 
gentle  flowers  ?  and  did  she  find  in  them  a  kindred 
spirit  ?  As  the  breeze  played  past  they  appeared  to 
her  pulsating  with  life  ;  she  felt  with  unutterable 
pleasure  the  influence  of  their  grace  and  freshness, 
and  while  gazing  she  seemed  assimilated  to  them ; 
then  she  asked  herself  why  they  grew,  and  whether 
so  beautiful  things  could  really  die.  Conjectures 
like  these  may  seem  fanciful  and  absurd  to  more 
mature  minds ;  but  are  they  not  the  first  unfolding 
of  those  high  thoughts  which  are  the  germs  of  noble 
action  ?  Thought  is  not  formed  to  waste  itself  in 
words  ;  to  reach  its  ultimate  in  empty  sound,  but 
rather  to  become  inibodied  in  great  and  lofty  deeds. 


THE    CRUSHED    BUD.  233 

The  swinging  of  an  old  cathedral  lamp,  the  fall  of 
an  apple,  or  a  soap-bubble  sailing  in  sunlight,  may 
bring  to  human  knowledge  the  existence  of  an  im- 
mortal law  of  God's  universe  ;  and  the  first  crude 
imaginings  of  a  child  may  develop  into  ideas  that 
may  one  day  move  the  world. 

Long  did  the  little  girl  watch  the  violets;  but 
suddenly  springing  forward,  she  ran  to  her  mother, 
exclaiming,  — 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,  do  the  flowers  have  souls  ?  " 

"  Why,  Katie,  are  you  not  ashamed  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion so  silly?  You  are  certainly  old  enough  to 
know  better."  And  Mrs.  Grey  bit  her  lip,  and  col- 
ored with  vexation,  as  though  her  Katie  were  truly 
the  veriest  ninny  in  the  world. 

But  Katie  did  not  know  better ;  she  had  com- 
muned so  lovingly  and  long  with  the  sweet  flowers, 
those  fair  nurslings  of  nature,  which  are  as  foot- 
prints of  the  angels,  that  she  began  to  wonder  if 
within  their  bosoms  there  was  not  the  same  undying 
principle  which  made  life  so  full  of  interest  to  her  ; 
and  in  her  simplicity  she  ran  to  her  mother,  that 
unthinking  woman  of  the  world,  with  that  "silly 
question." 

That  mother  did  not  seek  to  learn  wherefore  she 
asked.  Had  she  but  traced 


234  THE    CRUSHED    BUD. 

"  Back  to  its  cloud  this  lightning  of  the  mind," 

she  might  have  guessed  how  beautiful  was  the  fairy 
world  she  had  so  thoughtlessly  laid  in  ruins  ;  she 
might  have  known  something  of  the  lovely  child  she 
called  her  own.  But  one  who  dealt  with  the  cold 
deception  of  the  fashionable  world  alone,  could  have 
little  sympathy  in  common  with  a  spirit  so  natural 
and  free  in  its  impulses. 

Katie  returned  to  the  sweet  bed  of  violets  as  to 
the  bosom  of  a  friefe  ;  and  bitter,  very  bitter,  were 
the  tears  she  shed,  for  those  cruel  words  were  con- 
stantly ringing  in  her  ears.  Laying  her  burning 
temples  to  the  soft,  velvet  faces  of  the  flowers,  she 
thought  that  flowers  must  indeed  have  souls,  their 
cool  breath  was  so  soothing  to  her  fevered  brow. 
There  the  little  creature  lay,  sobbing  herself  into 
delirium  ;  and  when  at  length  her  father  came,  he 
found  his  darling  with  her  head  pillowed  upon  the 
violets.  He  gently  raised  her,  and  addressed  her  in 
fond  accents  ;  but  Katie  only  smiled,  for  she  thought 
it  was  the  flowers  answering  her,  and  that  Mary  was 
there  as  their  interpreter. 

The  morrow  dawned,  but  that  precious  bud  was 
withered  —  crushed  by  the  hand  that  should  have 
cherished,  the  hand  of  an  unskilful  gardener. 

Violets  bloomed  upon  the  grave  of  little  Katie 


THE    CRUSHED    BUD.  235 

Grey,  and  people  did  not  marvel  at  her  untimely 
death  ;  she  was  "  too  pure  for  earth,"  they  said  ;  but 
strange  visions  haunted  the  mother's  sleep,  of  deli- 
cate and  beautiful  flowers,  with  human  faces  nestling 
in  their  fragrant  bells  ;  and  in  their  midst  a  bud  just 
unfolding  would  disclose  the  angel  features  of  little 
Katie,  thoughtful  and  inquiring  in  expression,  with 
eyes  gazing  imploringly  into  her  own.  Holy  beings 
walked  among  them,  guarding  their  culture  with  the 
utmost  vigilance  ;  and  when  she  fain  would  clasp 
the  opening  bud  to  her  bosom,  and  claim  it  as  her 
own,  those  guardian  ones  would  look  reproachfully 
upon  her,  and  motion  her  away.  But  yes,  she  must 
go  to  her  own  little  Kate,  and  as  in  her  eagerness 
she  passed,  the  flowers  along  her  way  would  wither ; 
and  as  she  drew  nearer  to  the  fair  bud,  the  breeze 
would  resolve  itself  into  the  most  plaintive  music,  as 
if  it  were  sweeping  over  the  chords  of  her  heart  — 
those  chords  strained  to  so  fearful  tension  ;  and  its 
tones  would  mockingly  ask  if  the  flowers  were 
possessed  of  souls.  Then  the  bud  would  languish, 
and  the  half-expanded  petals  would  fall  to  the 
ground  ;  the  air  would  be  filled  with  fragrance,  and 
they  who  were  watchers  there  would  receive  little 
Katie  from  the  crushed  heart  of  the  flower,  and 
bear  her  away,  the  mother  knew  not  whither.  Then, 

(o) —  — 


=@ 

236  THE   DEWDROP'S    GRAVE. 

awaking,  she  would  weep  sadly  ;  but  tears  could  not 
revive  the  wasted  bud,  or  sorrowing  restore  the  lost 
one  to  her  embrace ;  yet,  thenceforward,  none  could 
be  more  kindly  considerate,  when  addressed  by  a 
little  child,  than  Mrs.  Grey,  for  she  had  learned  — 
alas  !  too  late  —  how  slight  a  thing  may  wound  their 
untried  and  confiding  affection. 


THE   DEWDROP'S    GRAVE. 


A  DEWDROP,  falling  on  the  wild  sea  wave, 
Exclaimed  in  fear,  "  I  perish  in  this  grave  !  " 
But  in  a  shell  received,  that  drop  of  dew 
Unto  a  pearl  of  marvellous  beauty  grew, 
And,  happy  now,  the  grace  did  magnify,  • 
Which  thrust  it  forth,  as  it  had  feared  to  die,  — 
Until  again,  "  I  perish  quite,"  it  said, 
Torn  by  rude  diver  from  its  ocean  bed ; 
O,  unbelieving  !  so  it  came  to  gleam 
Chief  jewel  in  a  monarch's  diadem. 


@ 


LIFE    IS    REAL MEMORY   JUST.  237 


LIFE   IS   REAL-MEMORY   JUST. 


WHEN  daylight  yields  to  eve's  serener  birth, 
And  lambent  shadows  bathe  the  autumn  earth  ; 
When  all  the  sky  in  regal  pomp  reveals 
The  starry  splendor  which  the  day  conceals  ;  — 

When  soft  -winds  sigh  to  kiss  the  fading  flowers, 
And  pensive  memories  fill  the  passing  hours,  — 
Alone  I  sit,  'mid  scenes  my  childhood  knew, 
And  days  long  vanished  I  in  thought  review. 

The  years  have  taught  me,  in  their  varied  tread, 
To  love  the  living,  and  to  mourn  the  dead ; 
The  grave  holds  treasures  —  one  who  used  to  share 
With  me  the  bounty  of  a  mother's  prayer. 

The  grave  holds  treasures  ?     Nay,  I  would  not  bring 
A  thought  like  this,  to  which  no  hope  can  cling, 
Since  Heaven  doth  shield  from  all  terrestrial  care 
The  vital  germ  in  death  transplanted  there. 

As  memories  cluster  I  recount  the  years, 
Their  flight  thus  measured  by  my  smiles  and  tears ; 
Yet  there  are  those,  though  fled,  whose  memories  stay 
Like  Alpine  snows  that  will  not  melt  away. 


238  LIFE    IS    REAL MEMORY    JUST. 

Some  years  of  rapture,  which  to  live  again 
Were  worth  enduring  life's  attendant  pain ; 
"Which,  'mid  the  wreck  of  Time's  ingulfing  tomb, 
Within  the  heart  in  vernal  beauty  bloom. 

Earth's  scenes  are  changeful ;  their  duration  shows 
How  frail  the  fabric  of  a  life's  repose ; 
We  live,  we  breathe,  we  bask  in  noonday  light, 
Nor  heed  the  shadow  of  a  coming  night. 

I've  learned  this  truth  ;  yet  oft  I  gaze  between 
The  boundless  vista  of  the  far  unseen, 
Where  hope  presents  in  smiling  garb,  anew, 
The  future  fairer,  and  existence  true. 

And  is  it  not  ?     Though  clouds  may  veil  a  while 
The  quiet  beauty  of  a  sunset  smile, 
To-morrow  dawns  —  in  aureate  splendor  robed, 
All  Nature  smiling  at  the  wound  she  probed. 

'Tis  thus  in  life  :  joy  follows  close  on  pain  ; 
And  when  we  die,  'tis  but  to  live  again  : 
From  forth  the  cradle  to  the  bier  we  tread, 
The  earth  behind  and  heaven  before  us  spread. 


FOR    THOU,   MY   LOVE,   ART    STILL    THE    SAME.     239 


FOR  THOU,  MY  LOVE,  ART  STILL  THE  SAME. 


THY  cheek  is  pale  with  many  cares, 

Thy  brow  is  overcast, 
And  thy  fair  face  a  shadow  wears 

That  tells  of  sorrows  past ; 
But  music  hath  thy  tongue  for  me  : 
How  dark  soe'er  my  lot  may  be, 
I  turn  for  comfort,  love,  to  thee, 

My  beautiful,  my  wife  ! 

Thy  gentle  eyes  are  not  so  bright 

As  when  I  wooed  thee  first ; 
Yet  still  they  have  the  same  sweet  light 

Which  long  my  heart  has  nursed  ; 
They  have  the  same  enchanting  beam. 
"Which  charmed  me  in  love's  early  dream, 
And  still  with  joy  on  me  they  stream, 

My  beautiful,  my  wife  ! 

When  all  without  looks  dark  and  cold, 
Nor  voices  change  their  tone, 

Nor  greet  me  as  they  did  of  old, 
I  fcvl  \  am  not  lone  ; 


240  A  BLEST  RELIEF  IN  TEARS. 

For  thou,  my  love,  art  still  the  same, 
And  looks  and  deeds  thy  faith  proclaim  ; 
Though  all  should  scorn,  thou  wouldst  not  blame, 
My  beautiful,  my  wife  ! 


A  BLEST  RELIEF  IN  TEARS. 


WHEN  the  sad  heart  is  wrung  with  grief, 
Or  pressed  with  gloomy  fears, 

It  often  finds  a  solace  sweet, 
A  blest  relief  in  tears. 

As  when  denied  the  showers  of  heaven 

Beneath  a  summer  sky, 
The  little  tender  floweret  droops 

Upon  the  ground  to  die,  — 

So  droops  the  heart  denied  these  tears 

In  its  dark  sorrow  low ; 
Or  in  its  silent  anguish  breaks 

Beneath  the  heavy  blow. 

As  when  upon  the  dry,  parched  earth 

Falls  the  refreshing  rain. 
The  little  drooping  flower  looks  up, 

And  smiles  in  joy  again. 


=© 


OUE    OLD    GRANDMOTHER.  241 


OUR    OLD   GRANDMOTHER. 

"  I  FIND  the  marks  of  my  shortest  steps  beside 
those  of  my  beloved  mother, 'which  were  measured 
by  my  own,"  says  Alexandre  Dumas,  and  so  conjures 
up  one  of  the  sweetest  images  in  the  world.  He 
was  revisiting  the  home  of  his  infancy ;  he  was 
retracing  the  little  paths  around  it  in  which  he  had 
once  walked ;  and  strange  flowers  could  not  efface, 
and  rank  grass  could  not  conceal,  and  cruel  ploughs 
could  not  obliterate,  "his  shortest  footsteps,"  and 
his  mother's  beside  them,  measured  by  his  own. 

And  who  needs  to  be  told  whose  footsteps  they 
were  that  thus  kept  time  with  the  feeble  pattering 
of  childhood's  little  feet?  It  was  no  mother  be- 
hind whom  Ascanius  walked  "  with  unequal  steps " 
in  Virgil's  line,  but  a  stern,  strong  man,  who  could 
have  borne  him  and  not  been  burdened;  folded  him  in 
his  arms  from  all  danger,  and  not  been  wearied  ; 
every  thing,  indeed,  he  could  have  done  for  him,  but 
just  what  he  needed  most  —  he  could  not  sympathize 
• = 

16 


242  OUR    OLD    GRANDMOTHER. 

with  him ;  he  could  not  be  a  child  again.  Ah,  a 
rare  art  is  that,  —  for  indeed  it  is  an  art, — to  set  back 
the  great  old  clock  of  time,  and  be  a  boy  once  more. 
Man's  imagination  can  easily  see  the  child  a  man  ; 
but  how  hard  it  is  for  it  to  see  the  man  a  child  !  And 
he  who  had  learned  to  glide  back  into  that  rosy 
time,  when  he  did  not  know  that  thorns  were  under 
the  roses,  or  that  clouds  would  ever  return  after  the 
rain  ;  when  he  thought  a  tear  could  stain  a  cheek 
no  more  than  a  drop  of  rain  a  flower ;  when  he 
fancied  that  life  had  no  disguise,  and  hope  no  blight 
at  all,  —  has  come  as  near  as  any  body  can  to 
discovering  the  north-west  passage  to  paradise. 

And  it  is  perhaps  for  this  reason  that  it  is  so  much 
easier  for  a  mother  to  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
than  it  is  for  the  rest  of  the  world.  She  fancies  she 
is  leading  the  children,  when,  after  all,  the  children 
are  leading  her ;  and  they  keep  her  indeed  where 
the  river  is  the  narrowest  and  the  air  is  the  clear- 
est ;  and  the  beckoning  of  a  radiant  hand  is  so 
plainly  seen  from  the  other  side,  that  it  is  no  wonder 
she  so  often  lets  go  her  clasp  upon  the  little  fingers 
she  is  holding,  and  goes  over  to  the  neighbors,  and 
the  children  follow,  like  lambs  to  the  fold  ;  for  we 
think  it  ought  somewhere  to  be  written, "  "Where  the 
mother  is,  there  will  the  children  be  also." 


OUR    OLD    GRANDMOTHER.  243 

But  it  was  not  of  the  mother  we  began  to  think, 
but  of  the  dear,  old-fashioned  grandmother,  whose 
thread  of  love,  spun  "  by  hand  "  on  life's  little  wheel, 
was  longer  and  stronger  than  they  make  it  now,  was 
wound  about  and  about  the  children  she  saw  play- 
inir  in  the  children's  arms,  in  a  true  love-knot  that 
nothing  but  the  shears  of  Atropos  could  sever  ;  for 
do  we  not  recognize  the  lambs  sometimes,  when  sum- 
mer days  are  over,  and  autumn  winds  are  blowing, 
and  they  come  bleating  from  the  yellow  fields,  by 
the  crimson  thread  we  wound  about  their  necks  in 
April  or  May,  and  so  undo  the  gate  and  let  the 
wanderers  in  ? 

Blessed  be  the  children  who  have  an  old-fashioned 
grandmother.  As  they  hope  for  length  of  days,  let 
them  love  and  honor  her,  for  we  can  tell  them  they 
will  never  find  another. 

There  is  a  large,  old  kitchen  somewhere  in  the 
past,  and  an  old-fashioned  fireplace  therein,  with  its 
smooth  old  jambs  of  stone ;  smooth  with  many 
knives  that  had  been  sharpened  there  ;  smooth  with 
many  little  fingers  that  have  clung  there.  There 
are  andirons,  too  ;  the  old  andirons,  with  rings  in 
the  top,  wherein  many  temples  of  flame  have  been 
builded,  with  spires  and  turrets  of  crimson.  There 
is  a  broad,  worn  hearth  ;  broad  enough  for  three 
o)  - 


244  OUR    OLD    GRANDMOTHER. 

generations  to  cluster  on;  worn  by  feet  that  have 
been  torn  and  bleeding  by  the  way,  or  been  made 
"  beautiful,"  and  walked  upon  floors  of  tessellated 
gold.  There  are  tongs  in  the  corner,  wherewith  we 
grasped  a  coal,  and  "  blowing  for  a  little  life,"  light- 
ed our  first  candle;  there  is  a  shovel, "wherewith 
were  drawn  forth  the  glowing  embers  in  which  we 
saw  our  first  fancies  and  dreamed  our  first  dreams  ; 
the  shovel,  with  which  we  stirred  the  sleepy  logs, 
till  the  sparks  rushed  up  the  chimney  as  if  a  forge 
were  in  blast  below,  and  wished  we  had  so  many 
lambs,  or  so  many  marbles,  or  so  many  somethings 
that  we  coveted  ;  and  so  it  was  that  we  wished  our 
first  wishes. 

There  is  a  chair  —  a  low,  rush-bottomed  chair ; 
there  is  a  little  wheel  in  the  corner,  a  big  wheel  in 
the  garret,  a  loom  in  the  chamber.  There  are  chests 
full  of  treasures  of  linen  and  yarn,  and  quilts  of 
rare  pattern,  and  "  samplers  "  in  frames. 

And  every  where  and  always  the  dear  old  wrinkled 
face  of  her  whose  firm,  elastic  step  mocks  the  feeble 
saunter  of  her  children's  children  —  the  old-fash- 
ioned grandmother  of  twenty  years  ago  ;  she,  the 
very  Providence  of  the  old  homestead  ;  she,  who 
loved  us  all,  and  said  she  wished  there  were  more  of 
us  to  love,  and  took  all  the  school  in  the  Hollow  for 


OUR    OLD    GRANDMOTHER.  245 


grandchildren  beside.  A  great,  expansive  heart  was 
hers,  beneath  that  woollen  gown,  or  that  more 
stately  bombazine,  or  that  sole  heirloom  of  silken 
texture. 

We  can  see  her  to-day  ;  those  mild,  blue  eyes, 
with  more  'of  beauty  in  them  than  Time  could  touch 
or  Death  do  more  than  hide ;  those  eyes  that  held 
both  smiles  and  tears  within  the  faintest  call  of 
every  one  of  us ;  and  soft  reproof,  that  seemed  not 
passion,  but  regret.  A  white  tress  has  escaped  from 
beneath  her  snowy  cap  ;  she  has  just  restored  a  wan- 
dering lamb  to  its  mother  ;  she  lengthened  the  tether 
of  a  vine  that  was  straying  over  a  window,  as  she 
came  in,  and  plucked  a  four-leaved  clover  for  Elleif. 
She  sits  down  by  the  little  wheel ;  a  tress  is  running 
through  her  fingers  from  the  distaff's  dishevelled 
head,  when  a  small  voice  cries,  "  Grandma,"  from  the 
old  red  cradle ;  and  "  Grandma"  Tommy  shouts 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Gently  she  lets  go  the 
thread,  —  for  her  patience  is  almost  as  beautiful  as  her 
charity,  —  and  she  touches  the  little  red  bark  a  mo- 
ment, till  the  young  voyager  is  in  a  dream  again, 
and  then  directs  Tommy's  unavailing  attempts  to 
harness  the  cat.  The  tick  of  the  clock  runs  faint 
and  low,  and  she  opens  the  mysterious  door,  and 
proceeds  to  wind  it  up.  We  are  all  on  tiptoe,  and 

-     —  -.--. -re* 


246  OUR    OLD    GRANDMOTHER. 

we  beg  in  a  breath  to  be  lifted  up  one  by  one,  and 
look  in  the  hundredth  time  upon  the  tin  cases  of  the 
weights,  and  the  poor  lonely  pendulum,  which  goes 
to  and  fro  by  its  little  dim  window,  and  never  comes 
out  in  the  world  ;  and  our  petitions  are  all  granted, 
and  we  are  lifted  up,  and  we  all  touch  with  a 
finger  the  wonderful  weights,  and  the  music  of  the 
little  wheel  is  resumed. 

Was  Mary  to  be  married,  or  Jane  to  be  wrapped 
in  a  shroud  ?  So  meekly  did  «he  fold  the  white 
hands  of  the  one  upon  her  still  bosom,  that  there 
seemed  to  be  a  prayer  in  them  there  ;  and  so  sweetly 
did  she  wreathe  the  white  rose  in  the  hair  of  the 
other,  that  one  would  not  have  wondered  had  more 
roses  budded  for  company. 

How  she  stood  between  us,  and  apprehended 
harm!  how  the  rudest  of  us  softened  beneath  the 
gentle  pressure  of  her  faded  and  tremulous  hand! 
From  her  capacious  pocket  that  hand  was  ever  with- 
drawn closed,  only  to  be  opened  in  our  own,  with 
the  nuts  she  ha.d  gathered,  the  cherries  she  had 
plucked,  the  little  egg  she  had  found,  the  "  turn-over  " 
she  had  baked,  the  trinket  she  had  purchased  for  us 
as  the  product  of  her  spinning  ;  the  blessing  she  had 
stored  for  us  —  the  offspring  of  her  heart. 

What  treasures  of  story  fell  from  those  old  lips ! 


@  = 

OUR    OLD    GRANDMOTHER.  247 

of  good  fairies  and  evil ;  of  the  old  times  when  she 
was  a  girl ;  and  we  wondered  if  ever  —  but,  then, 
she  couldn't  be  handsomer  or  dearer  —  if  ever  she 
was  "  little."  And  then*  when  we  begged  her  to 
sing,  "Sing  us  one  of  the  old  songs  you  used  to 
sing  mother,  grandma." 

"  Children,  I  can't  sing,"  she  always  said ;  and 
mother  used  to  lay  her  knitting  softly  down  ;  and 
the  kitten  stopped  playing  with  the  yarn  upon  the 
floor  ;  and  the  clock  ticked  lower  in  the  corner  ;  and 
the  fire  died  down  to  a  glow,  like  an  old  heart  that 
is  neither  chilled  nor  dead  ;  and  grandmother  sang. 
To  be  sure,  it  wouldn't  do  for  the  parlor  and  the 
concert  room  nowadays ;  but  then  it  was  the  old 
kitchen,  and  the  old-fashioned  grandmother,  and  the 
old  ballad,  in  the  dear  old  times  ;  and  we  can  hard- 
ly see  to  write  for  the  memory  of  them,  though  it  is 
a  hand's  breadth  to  the  sunset. 

Well,  she  sang.  Her  voice  was  feeble  and  waver- 
ing, like  a  fountain  just  ready  to  fall ;  but  then 
how  sweet  toned  it  was  !  and  it  became  deeper  and 
stronger,  but  it  couldn't  grow  sweeter.  What  joy 
of  grief  it  was  to  sit  around  the  fire,  —  all  of  us 
except  Jane,  that  clasped  a  prayer  to  her  bosom ; 
and  her  we  thought  we  saw,  when  the  hall  door  was 
opened  a  moment  by  the  wind  ;  but  then  we  were 


— @ 

248  OUK    OLD    GRANDMOTHER. 

not  afraid,  for  wasn't  it  her  old  smile  she  wore  ?  — 
to  sit  there  around  the  fire,  and  weep  over  the  woe? 
of  the  "  Babes  in  the  Woods,"  who  lay  down  side  In- 
side in  the  great,  solemn  shadows!  and  how  strang-e- 
ly  glad  we  felt  when  the  robin  redbreast  covered 
them  with  leaves !  and  last  of  all,  when  the  angels 
took  themtout  of  the  night  into  day  everlasting ! 

We  may  think  what  we  will  of  it  now,*  but  the 
song  and  the  story  heard  around  the  kitchen  fire 
have  colored  the  thoughts  and  lives  of  the  most  of 
us ;  have  given  us  the  germs  of  whatever  poetry 
blesses  our  hearts  ;  whatever  of  memory  blooms  in 
our  yesterdays.  Attribute  whatever  we  may  to  the 
school  and  the  schoolmaster,  the  rays,  which  make 
that  little  winter's  day  we  call  life,  radiate  from  the 
God-swept  circle  of  the  hearthstone. 

Then  she  sings  an  old  lullaby  she  sang  to  mother 
—  her  mother  sang  to  her  ;  but  she  does  not  sing  it 
through,  and  falters  ere  'tis  done.  She  rests  her 
head  upon  her  hands,  and  it  is  silent  in  the  old 
kitchen.  Something  glitters  down  between  her  fin- 
gers in  the  firelight,  and  it  looks  like  rain  in  the 
soft  sunshine.  The  old  grandmother  is  thinking 
when  she  first  heard  the  song,  and  of  the  voice  that 
sang  it ;  when,  a  light-haired  and  light-hearted  girl, 
she  hung  around  that  mother's  chair,  nor  saw  the 
(5)  --^ 


OUR    OLD    GRANDMOTHER.  249 

shadows  of  the  years  to  come.  0,  the  days  that  are 
no  more  !  What  spell  can  we  weave  to  bring  them 
back  again  ?  what  words  unsay,  what  deeds  undo, 
to  set  back,  just  this  once,  the  ancient  clock  of  time  ? 

So  all  our  little  hands  were  forever  clinging  to 
her  garments,  and  staying  her,  as  if  from  dying  ;  for 
long  ago  she  had  done  living  for  herself,  and  lived 
alone  in  us.  But  the  old  kitchen  wants  a  presence 
to-day,  and  the  rush-bottomed  chair  is  tcnantless. 

How  she  used  to  welcome  us  when  we  were  grown, 
and  came  back  once  more  to  the  homestead !  We 
thought  we  were  men  and  women,  but  we  were  chil- 
dren there.  The  old-fashioned  grandmother  was 
blind  in  the  eyes,  but  she  saw  with  her  heart,  as  she 
always  did.  We  threw  our  long  shadows  through 
the  open  door  and  she  felt  them,  as  they  felf  over 
her  form  ;  and  she  looked  dimly  up,  and  saw  tall 
shapes  in  the  doorway,  and  she  says,  "  Edward  I 
know,  and  Lucy's  voice  I  can  hear,  but  whose  is  that 
other's?  It  must  be  Jane's,"  for  she  had  almost  for- 
gotten the  folded  hands.  "  0,  no,  not  Jane;  for  she 
—  let  me  see  —  she  is  waiting  for  me  ;  isn't  she  ?  " 
and  the  old  grandmother  wandered  and  wept. 

"It  is  another  daughter,  grandmother,  that  Ed- 
ward has  brought,"  says  some  one  ;  "  brought  for 
your  blessing." 

(5)—  


250  OUR    OLD    GRANDMOTHER. 

"  Has  she  blue  eyes,  my  son  ?  Put  her  hand  in 
mine,  for  she  is  my  latest  born,  the  child  of  my  old 
age.  Shall  I  sing  you  a  song,  children  ?  "  Her 
hand  is  in  her  pocket,  as  of  old  ;  she  is  idly  fumbling 
for  a  toy,  a  welcome  gift  for  the  children  that  have 
come  again. 

One  of  us,  men  as  we  thought  we  were,  is  weep- 
ing ;  she  hears  the  half-suppressed  sob  ;  she  says,  as 
she  extends  her  feeble  hand,  "  Here,  my  poor  child, 
rest  upon  your  grandmother's  shoulder ;  she  will 
protect  you  from  all  harm.  Come,  children,  sit 
round  the  fire  again.  Shall  I  sing  you  a  song,  or 
tell  you  a  story  ?  Stir  the  fire,  for  it  is  cold  ;  the 
nights  are  growing  colder." 

The  clock  in  the  corner  struck  nine  —  the  bedtime 
of  those  old  days.  The  song  of  life  was  indeed 
sung,  the  story  told  ;  it  was  bedtime  at  last.  Good 
night  to  thee,  grandmother !  The  old-fashioned 
grandmother  was  no  more,  and  we  miss  her  forever. 
But  we  will  set  up  a  tablet  in  the  midst  of  the 
memory,  in  the  midst  of  the  heart ;  and  we  write 
on  it  only  this  :  — 

SACRED  TO   THE   MEMORY 

OF  THE 

OLD-FASHIONED  GRANDMOTHER. 

GOD  BLESS  HER  FOREVER. 
(5) — (O) 


LET    ME    IN.  251 


LET    ME    IN. 


WHEN  the  summer  evening's  shadows 
Veiled  the  earth's  calm  bosom  o'er, 

Came  a  young  child,  faint  and  weary, 
Tapping  at  the  cottage  door : 

"  Wandering  through  the  winding  wood  paths 
My  worn  feet  too  long  have  been  ; 

Let  me  in,  O  gentle  mother  ; 
Let  me  in  ! " 

Years  passed  on  —  his  eager  spirit 
Gladly  watched  the  dying  hours  : 

"  I  will  be  a  child  no  longer, 

Finding  bliss  in  birds  and  flowers  ; 

I  will  seek  the  bands  of  pleasure, 
I  will  join  the  merry  din  ; 

Let  me  in  to  joy  and  gladness  ; 
Let  me  in  !  " 

Years  sped  on  —  yet  vainly  yearning, 
Murmuring  still,  the  restless  heart : 

"  I  am  tired  of  heartless  folly ; 
Let  the  glittering  cheat  depart ; 

(o) 


252  LET   ME    IN. 

I  have  found  in  worldly  pleasure 

Nought  to  happiness  akin  ; 
Let  me  in  to  love's  warm  presence  ; 
Let  me  in  !  " 

Years  flew  on  —  a  youth  no  longer, 
Still  he  owned  the  restless  heart : 

"  I  am  tired  of  love's  soft  durance  ; 
Sweet-voiced  siren,  we  must  part ; 

I  will  gain  a  laurel  chaplet, 

And  a  world's  applause  will  win  ; 

Let  me  in  to  fame  and  glory  ; 
Let  me  in  !  " 

Years  fled  on  —  the  restless  spirit 
Never  found  the  bliss  it  sought ; 

Answered  hopes  and  granted  blessings 
Only  new  aspirings  brought : 

"  I  am  tired  of  earth's  vain  glory, 
I  am  tired  of  grief  and  sin  ; 

Let  me  in  to  rest  eternal ; 
Let  me  in !  " 

Thus  th'  unquiet,  yearning  spirit, 

Taunted  by  a  vague  unrest, 
Knocks  and  calls  at  every  gateway, 

In  a  vain  and  fruitless  quest : 
.  Ever  striving  some  new  blessing, 
Some  new  happiness,  to  win ; 
At  some  portal  ever  saying, 
"  Let  me  in  !  " 


GUAEDIAN   ANGELS.  253 


GUARDIAN    ANGELS. 


CHILD  of  earth,  and  child  of  heaven  ! 

Each  *like  in  form  and  face, 
Save  that  wings  to  one  are  given, 

Something,  too,  of  loftier  grace. 

Yet  the  trustful  and  the  true 

Dwell  in  meekness  with  the  other  — 
These  alone  it  was  that  drew 

From  the  skies  its  angel  brother. 

Half  in  blindness,  half  in  trust, 

Guardian  arms  around  him  pressed, 

Sleeps  the  child  of  time  and  dust, 
Shielded  by  his  cherub  guest. 

Angel  child  !  and  child  of  earth ! 

Semblance  ye  of  hidden  things  ; 
One  hath  reached  its  spirit  birth, 

One  but  waiteth  for  its  wings. 


254  I'M  OLD  TO-DAY. 


I'M    OLD    TO-DAY. 

An  aged  man,  on  reaching  his  seventieth  birthday,  like  one  sur- 
prised, paced  his  house,  exclaiming  "  I  am  an  old  man  !  I  am  an 
old  man ! " 


I  WAKE  at  last ;  I've  dreamed  too  long. 

Where  are  my  threescore  years  and  ten  ? 
My  eye  is  keen,  my  limbs  are  strong  ; 

I  well  might  vie  with  younger  men. 
The  world,  its  passions  and  its  strife, 

Is  passing  from  my  grasp  away, 
And  though  this  pulse  seems  full  of  life, 

"  I'm  old  to-day  —  I'm  old  to-day." 

Strange  that  I  never  felt,  before, 

That  I  had  almost  reached  my  goal. 
My  bark  is  nearing  death's  dark  shore  ; 

Life's  waters  far  behind  me  roll ; 
And  yet  I  love  their  murmuring  swell  — 

Their  distant  breakers'  proud  array ; 
And  miLSt  I  —  can  I  say,  "  Farewell "  ? 

"  I'm  old  to-day  —  I'm  old  to-day." 

This  house  is  mine,  and  those  broad  lands 
That  slumber  'neath  yon  fervid  sky ; 


I'M  OLD  TO-DAT.  255 


Yon  brooklet,  leaping  o'er  the  sands, 

Hath  often  met  my  boyish  eye. 
I  loved  those  mountains  when  a  child ; 

They  still  look  young  in  green  array : 
Ye  rocky  cliffs,  ye  summits  wild, 

"  I'm  old  to-day  —  I'm  old  to-day." 

'Twixt  yesterday's  short  hours  and  me 

A  mighty  gulf  hath  intervened : 
A  man  with  men  I  seemed  to  be  ; 

But  now  'tis  meet  I  should  be  weaned 
From  all  my  kind  —  from  kindred  dear  ; 

From  those  deep  skies  —  that  landscape  gay ; 
From  hopes  and  joys  I've  cherished  here  ; 

"  I'm  old  to-day  —  I'm  old  to-day." 

O  man  of  years,  while  earth  recedes, 

Look  forward,  upward,  not  behind  ! 
Why  dost  thou  lean  on  broken  reeds  ? 

Why  still  with  earthly  fetters  bind 
Thine  ardent  soul  ?     God  give  it  wings, 

'Mid  higher,  purer  joys  to  stray ! 
In  heaven  no  happy  spirit  sings, 

"  I'm  old  to-day  —  I'm  old  to-day." 


— © 

256  THE    UNTHANKFUL. 


THE  UNTHANKFUL. 


HOME  !  there's  a  sacred  sweetness  hid 
In  that  one  short  and  simple  word, 

And  cold  and  worthless  is  the  heart 
That  is  not  by  its  utterance  stirred. 

Yet  there  are  those  who  rudely  turn 
Away  from  all  the  bliss  of  home, 

Who  spurn  the  joys  that,  pure  and  bright, 
Light  up  the  old  parental  dome. 

They  scorn  the  mother's  holy  love, 
The  father's  fond  affections  slight, 

And  crush  with  cold,  remorseless  hand 
The  hopes  that  made  the  future  bright. 

"  'Tis  sharper  than  the  serpent's  tooth," 

To  see  the  proud,  ungrateful  child, 
Who  in  its  earlier  love  and  truth 

Upon  its  doting  parents  smiled, 
Turn  scornfully  to  stranger  hearts, 

Their  worthless  favor  strive  to  win, 
And  thrust  aside  the  gentle  love 

That  hath  a  guardian  angel  been. 


THE    VOICE    OF   HER   I   LOVE.  257 

Alas  !  that  such  should  dare  to  speak 

Of  pure  emotion  —  wondrous  thought  — 
Of  feelings  not  to  be  expressed, 

So  deeply,  so  intensely  wrought ; 
I'd  sooner  trust  an  oyster's  heart, 

I'd  rather  with  a  tiger  roam, 
Than  strive  to  move  the  soulless  breast 

That  feels  no  interest  in  home. 


THE   VOICE    OF   HER    I   LOYE. 


How  sweet  at  the  hour  of  silent  eve 

The  harp's  responsive  sound ! 
How  sweet  the  vows  that  ne'er  deceive, 

And  deeds  by  virtue  crowned ! 
How  sweet  to  sit  beneath  a  tree 

In  some  delightful  grove  ! 
But  O,  more  soft,  more  sweet,  to  me 

The  voice  of  her  I  love. 


258  CHARLIE    MOSS. 


CHARLIE   MOSS. 

A  LEAP  FEOM  MY  COUNTRY  NOTE-BOOK. 

EVERY  morning  a  little  curly-haired,  rosy-cheeked 
boy  came  whistling  down  the  lane,  preceded  by  a 
drove  of  the  most  beautiful  cattle  I  ever  beheld. 

I  am  not  "  passionately  fond  "  of  animals ;  indeed, 
I  can  hardly  confess  to  the  idiosyncrasy  of  petship  ; 
but  I  admire  beauty,  even  if  it  chances  to  enshrine 
itself  in  just  such  a  commonplace  object  as  a  farm- 
er's cow ;  and  these  cows  were  positively  worthy 
of  admiration.  They  were  fine,  noble,  well-propor- 
tioned animals ;  with  such  an  expression  of  grave 
wisdom  reposing  in  their  huge,  massive  features,  it 
struck  me  as  bordering  very  closely  upon  intelli- 
gence. Then  they  trod  the  ground  so  calmly  and 
independently,  stopping  here  and  there  to  crop  a 
mouthful  of  dewy  grass,  as  if  fully  conscious  that 
the  shining  sleekness  of  their  brightly-spotted  coats 
was  sufficient  security  against  any  undue  proximity 
of  a  certain  long  beech  rod,  which  seemed  carried, 
like  the  clergyman's  cane,  rather  for  show  than  use. 


CHARLIE   MOSS.  259 


The  young  lad  I  fell  in  love  with  at  first  sight. 
He  was  a  pretty,  winsome  little  fellow,  and  my  heart 
went  out  after  him  as  naturally  as  if  he  had  been 
my  kin.  One  morning,  at  early  dawn,  I  awoke  from 
troubled  slumbers,  and  flung  wide  the  casement,  to 
inhale  the  delicious  breath  of  the  flowers  that  grew 
in  luxuriant  profusion  around  the  old  house.  It 
was  a  glorious  hour.  Nought  but  the  dreamy,  mo- 
notonous hum  of  insects  —  "  those  sounds  which  seem 
of  Silence  born"  —  broke  the  universal  stillness. 
The  skies  wore  a  hue  of  soft,  pearly  gray,  and  Luci- 
fer looked  forth  over  a  neighboring  hill,  clear  and 
bright  as  a  diamond. 

I  grew  poetical,  and  gave  utterance  in  an  under 
tone  to  the  opening  lines  of  "Willis's  exquisite  poem 
of  Hagar.  Gradually  the  silvery  light  in  the  east 
took  crimson  dyes  —  the  jewel  over  the  hill-top 
grew  pale  and  lustreless  —  a  freshening  breeze  swept 
through  the  valley  —  dawn  brightened  into  day,  and 
sounds  of  busy  life  came  from  the  vicinity  of  the 
farm  houses  ;  and  ere  long  the  spotted  cows  were 
seen  wending  leisurely  down  the  cool,  shadowy  road, 
followed  by  my  little  favorite,  who  whistled  and 
sang  alternately,  wild  and  clear  as  a  skylark. 

My  dunstable  was  on  instanter,  and  the  next 
moment  I  was  hurrying  down  to  the  wicket  gate 


=@ 

260  CHARLIE   MOSS. 

at  the  foot  of  the  garden  —  bent  on  making  his 
acquaintance. 

"  Good  morning,  little  boy,"  said  I,  by  way  of  in- 
troducing myself;  and  he  doffed  his  straw  hat 
deferentially,  with  none  of  that  bashfulness  often 
observant  in  the  manners  of  country  children.  "  I 
would  like  to  walk  a  little  way  down  the  lane  this 
fine  morning.  The  cows  are  not  rude  to  strangers 
—  are  they  ?  " 

"  0,  no,"  he  replied  ;  "  Molly  and  Dolly  are  very 
gentle,  and  Brown  and  Black  only  toss  their  horns 
when  Deacon  Wilbur's  dog  barks  at  them.  0,  no, 
you  needn't  mind  them  at  all."  So  I  stepped  fear- 
lessly into  the  path. 

"They  are  all  very  pretty  cows,"  I  continued,  try- 
ing to  make  some  advancement  in  conversation ; 
"  are  they  yours  ?  " 

"  0,  no,  ma'am  ;  they  belong  to  Mr.  Hinkley.  My 
name  is  Charlie  Moss,  and  I  live  at  Mr.  Hinkley's, 
and  drive  the  cows  to  pasture  every  morning." 

"  How  far  is  the  pasture  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Only  a  little  way — just  over  the  hill,  close  by 
the  lily  meadow.  Would  you  like  to  go  down 
there  ?  "  he  inquired,  very  earnestly ;  "  there  are  lots 
and  lots  of  lilies  down  there." 

The  inquiry  sounded  quite  like  an  invitation  ;  so 


@  — 

CHARLIE   MOSS.  261 


I  answered,  that  I  would  like  to  go,  at  which  he 
appeared  very  much  pleased,  and  we  walked  on  a 
few  paces  in  silence  ;  then,  looking  quickly  up  into 
my  face,  he  said,  — 

"  I  was  thinking  if  your  name  mightn't  be  Lucy  ; 
you  look  something  like  her,  only  she  had  bluer 
eyes,  and  her  hair  was  all  bright  and  shiny,  like 
gold.  Mr.  Cleverly,  the  schoolmaster*  used  to  call 
her  his  faired-haired  lassie.  She  was  my  sister,  and 
she  used  to  kiss  me  and  call  me  her  own  darling 
Charlie  ;  but  may  be  you  knew  Lucy  ?  " 

I  said,  no  ;  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  the  village, 
and  my  home  was  in  the  city,  but  that  I  was  spend- 
ing a  few  weeks  with  a  friend  of  mine,  who  lived  in 
the  old  house  that  we  could  just  see  through  the 
trees.  "  But  tell  me  all  about  Lucy,  please.  Where 
is  she  now?  "  I  inquired. 

"  Gone,"  said  he  ;  "  gone  with  father  and  mother. 
They  all  live  in  a  new  home  —  up  there,  where 
the  stars  shine  ;  but  I'm  not  sorry,"  he  continued, 
"for  I  shall  go,  too,  by  and  by-;  and  I  try  to  be 
very  glad,  for  Lucy  loves  me  just  the  same,  and 
waits  for  me.  I  thought  she  beckoned  to  me  the 
other  night,  when  the  moon  shone  so  bright  on  my 
bed  ;  but  Kate  Hinkley  said  'twas  only  a  dream, 
and  angels  never  beckoned  to  little  boys.  I 


262  CHARLIE    MOSS. 


don't  know — I  can't  quite  think;  can  you  tell  me, 
ma'am  ?  " 

I  could  not.  Hot  tears  were  in  my  eyes.  The 
simple,  loving  imagery  of  the  child  was  far  prefer- 
able to  the  chill  metaphysical  theory  of  the  world. 
He  seemed  to  understand  my  silence,  and,  with  that 
delicate  sensibility  which  we  sometimes  see  in  the 
very  young,  he  kept  his  eyes  averted,  and  I  observed 
that  his  face  wore  an  expression  of  forced  compo- 
sure. Such  an  apparent  effort  at  self-control  affected 
me  painfully.  Something  like  a  paternal  feeling 
gushed  up  from  my  inmost  heart.  I  wanted  to  take 
him  in  my  arms,  and  soothe  him  to  sleep  on  my 
bosom ;  but  angels  were  very  near  him  even  then, 
and  waiting  to  sing  his  lullaby. 

As  we  rose  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  Charlie  pointed 
to  the  meadow,  which  was  spread  out  in  the  valley 
below  us  like  an  emerald  sea  studded  with  miniature 
azure  islets  ;  and  then  he  ran  on  to  lower  the  bars 
of  the  cow  pasture. 

When  I  came  up  with  him,  he  had  regained  his 
usual  cheerful  manner,  and  seemed  anxious  to  do 
away  any  emotion  of  sadness  which  his  little  story 
had  excited. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  he,  "  we'll  get  the  lilies.  You 
wait  here,  please,  while  I  roll  up  my  panties  and 


CHARLIE   MOSS.  263     j 


pick  them,  for  it's  all  dewy  over  there,  and  you'll 
get  wet  if  you  go  over." 

I  could  but  admire  his  childish  gallantry;  and  when 
he  returned,  with  a  nice  bunch  for  each  of  us,  I  bent 
down  and  kissed  his  fairy,  round  cheek.  He  quietly 
saidj'  Thank  you,"  and  we  proceeded  homeward. 

From  that  day  Charlie  and  I  became  the  warmest 
friends  imaginable.  He  was  my  child-lover,  in  the 
truest  sense  of  the  word.  I  had  wrapped  him  in  the 
folds  of  my  heart's  purest  affection,  and  I  watched 
his  daily  coming,  with  a  sweet  tenderness  that  grew 
into  a  positive  idolatry.  Every  morning  I  met  him 
at  the  garden  gate,  and  every  evening  he  stopped  to 
receive  his  good  night  kiss. 

Prank  Willoughby  laughed  at  what  he  called  my 
infatuation,  and  joked  immoderately  of  my  rustic 
Cupid.  On  such  occasions,  Laura  usually  interposed 
in  my  behalf,  for  she  loved  Charlie  very  dearly. 
She  had  told  me  of  his  family  ;  of  the  death  of  his 
parents,  and  the  adoption  of  the  children  by  Farmer 
Hinkley  ;  of  the  strong  attachment  which  existed 
between  the  brother  and  sister,  and  of  her  sudden 
decease  a  few  months  before ;  but  he  was  a  gay 
little  fellow,  she  added,  and  soon  recovered  from  the 
loss.  Alas !  she  did  not  know  how  much  it  cost  him 
to  be  gay. 


264  CHARLIE    MOSS. 


Thus  time  wore  on.  In  our  interviews  we  talked 
of  many  things,  but  most  of  all  of  Lucy.  When  I 
spoke  of  the  great  city,  with  its  beautiful  parks  ;  of 
the  magnificent  shop  windows  filled  with  glittering 
gems,  and  shining  trinkets,  and  pretty  toys  ;  of  the 
entertaining  books,  and  games  for  children,  he  would 
smile,  and  say  it  must  be  very  pleasant,  but  that  was 
all.  He  never  once  expressed  a  wish  to  see  them. 
I  inquired  of  his  school,  his  studies  and  intellectual 
pursuits  ;  and  when  I  ascertained  that  he  lacked 
application,  I  tried  to  encourage  him  to  more  dili- 
gence, and  to  stimulate  him  to  ambition,  by  telling 
him  stories  of  great  men,  who  were  once  little 
schoolboys,  and  rose  to  eminence  by  their  own  untir- 
ing exertion  ;  but  he  looked  sad  and  perplexed,  and 
said,  "he  hoped  I'd  love  him  just  the  same;  but  it 
took  so  many  years  to  be  a  man,  that  he  didn't  want 
to  grow  so  long,  for  Lucy'd  get  tired  of  waiting." 

I  forbore  to  mention  the  subject  again,  for  I  saw 
that  it  distressed  him  uselessly.  He  had  no  desire 
for  emulation,  and  he  was  gradually  losing  his  hold 
on  earthly  things.  But  he  was  very  cheerful ;  only 
at  times  relapsing  into  a  thoughtful  mood,  which 
hushed  without  destroying  his  natural  buoyancy  of 
spirits.  The  summer  went  by,  with  its  lilies  and 
happy  hours.  The  golden  rod  blossomed  on  the  hill- 


CHARLIE    MOSS.  265 


side,  and  the  pastures  grew  bright  with  autumn  flow- 
ers. My  long  protracted  visit  with  the  Willoughby's 
was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  yet  sad  misgivings  filled 
my  heart  whenever  I  thought  of  leaving  Charlie. 
He  had  often,  during  our  acquaintance,  alluded  to  a 
separation  ;  but  it  was  relative  to  his  own  departure, 
rather  than  mine.  The  one  thought,  that  Lucy  was 
waiting  for  him,  continually  haunted  his  mind. 

It  was  a  warm,  bright,  golden  afternoon.  Laura 
and  I  had  gone  into  the  garden  to  loop  up  some 
dahlias,  which  had  fallen  away  from  their  fastenings. 
"We  had  nearly  completed  our  pleasant  task,  when  a 
childish  voice  called  my  name.  I  turned  round,  and 
there,  at  the  gate,  stood  Charlie,  looking  very  pale 
and  very  glad.  I  ran  down  to  meet  him,  and  to  my 
earnest  inquiries,  he  replied  that  he  had  not  felt 
quite  well  that  day,  and  Mr.  Hinkley  thought  a 
walk  might  do  him  good.  "  Would  you  like  to  go 
down  to  the  great  rock  by  the  river?"  he  asked. 
I  hesitated  not  a  moment.  Sad  presages  of  evil 
were  upon  me,  but  I  dreamed  not  the  reality  was 
so  near. 

All  that  bright  afternoon  we  spent  together,  talk- 
ing of  the  past.  From  our  position  we  could  see 
the  lily  meadow  now  lying  crisp  and  withered  be- 
neath a  September  sky  ;  near  by  the  spotted  cows 

(Q)  ---------  —  --------          ------  (0) 


266  CHARLIE   MOSS. 


grazed  as  usual ;  below  us  rolled  the  river,  and  far 
on  our  left  the  white  tombstones  were  just  visible  in 
the  churchyard  where  Lucy  was  reposing. 

What  a  holy  atmosphere  was  abroad  that  day. 
Heaven  seemed  to  come  down  to  us,  and  Charlie 
was  in  a  perfect  delirium  of  happiness.  He  sat  and 
gazed  into  the  blue  air  above  him,  till,  suddenly,  as 
if  from  extreme  exhaustion,  his  head  dropped  heavi- 
ly upon  my  lap,  and  he  slept.  I  raised  him  softly  in 
my  arms,  and  folded  my  mantle  about  him,  pillowing 
his  brown  curls  on  my  bosom.  I  saw  that  his  cheek 
grew  pallid,  and  dark  shadows  were  gathering 
around  his  eyes.  Angels  waited  for  him.  Lucy 
might  even  then  be  beckoning  in  his  dream.  I 
awoke  my  darling  when  the  day  declined,  that  he 
might  see  the  sun  go  down  in  great  clouds  of  purple 
and  amber :  then  we  went  home.  That  walk  was 
our  last  together.  Ere  another  week  had  elapsed, 
Charlie  Moss  had  left  me  alone.  Softly  and  gently 
passed  he  up  from  earth,  as  flowers  yield  up  their 
breath  in  summer  time.  I  saw  him  laid  in  a  sweet 
grassy  bed,  where  his  tiny  feet  had  loved  to  wander. 
I  wept,  but  they  were  not  bitter  tears,  for  I  knew 
there  was  joy  at  a-  happy  family  reunion  in  heaven. 


(n) — 

THE    OLD    CHURCH    BELL.  267 


THE    OLD    CHURCH   BELL. 


EVERY  holy  Sabbath  morning, 
While  the  sunbeams  are  adorning 

Sloping  hills  and  valleys  fair, 
Or  when  wintry  winds  are  sighing, 
And  the  shadows  thick  are  lying 

On  the  uplands,  bleak  and  bare  — 
Still  I  hear  that  silver  ringing  pealing  out  upon  the  air. 

From  the  belfry's  lofty  station, 
With  a  constant,  sweet  vibration, 

Floats  the  sound  from  door  to  door, 
Calling  to  the  sad  and  weary, 
And,  through  by-paths  lone  and  dreary, 

To  the  wretched  and  the  poor  ; 

All  earth's  toil-worn  children  hear  it,  hear  and  bless  it 
evermore. 

On  some  happy,  festive  morning, 
Long  before  the  rosy  dawning, 

Have  I  heard  that  merry  sound 
Ringing  out  across  the  meadows, 
Waking  all  the  sleeping  echoes 

Through  the  misty,  quiet  town, 

Starting  from  their  peaceful  slumbers  all  the  dreaming 
world  around. 


268  WE    COME  NOT   BACK. 

And  when  dust  to  dust  is  given, 
When  earth's  tenderest  ties  are  riven, 

Still  is  heard  that  plaintive  bell, 
Tolling  mournfully  and  slowly, 
While  alike  the  high  and  lowly 
Listen  to  the  passing  knell : 

List,  and  learn  the  solemn  meaning  of  the  deep-toned 
funeral  bell. 

Peals  of  joy,  and  tones  of  sorrow, 
Sad  to-day,  and  gay  to-morrow,  — 

Thus  are  life's  great  changes  rung  ; 
Strong  emotions,  upward  stealing 
From  the  deepest  fount  of  feeling, 

Uttered  by  that  iron  tongue, 
While  the  sweet  reverberations  die  away  the  hills  among. 


WE    COME   NOT   BACK. 


How  restless  fleet  away  the  years  ! 
How  blind  the  fugitives  to  tears  ! 
We  send  our  cries  along  their  track : 
Their  echo  is,  "  We  come  not  back ; 
Gaze  not  at  us  with  longing  sight ; 
Behold  what  droppeth  in  our  flight  — 
Riches  that  mock  all  plundering  power, 
Robes  that  outlast  the  festive  hour." 


DAILY   DUTIES.  269 


DAILY   DUTIES. 


OUR  daily  paths  with  thorns  or  flowers 

We  can  at  will  bestrew  them  ; 
What  bliss  would  gild  the  passing  hours, 

If  we  but  rightly  knew  them  ! 
The  way  of  life  is  rough  at  best, 

But  briers  yield  the  roses; 
So  that  which  leads  to  joy  and  rest 

The  hardest  path  discloses. 

The  weeds  that  oft  we  cast  away, 

Their  simple  beauty  scorning, 
Would  form  a  wreath  of  purest  ray, 

And  prove  the  best  adorning. 
So  in  our  daily  paths,  'twere  well 

To  call  each  gift  a  treasure, 
However  slight,  where  love  can  dwell 

With  life-renewing  pleasure. 


270  FLOWERS. 


FLOWERS. 


0,  THEY  look  upward  in  every  place 

Through  this  beautiful  world  of  ours, 
And  dear  as  a  smile  on  an  old  friend's  face 
Is  the  smile  of  the  bright,  bright  flowers. 
They  tell  us  of  wanderings  by  wood  and  streams, 

They  tell  us  of  lanes  and  trees  ; 
But  the  children  of  showers  and  sunny  beams 
Have  lovelier  tales  than  these — 

The  bright,  bright  flowers  ! 

They  tell  of  a  season  when  men  were  not, 

When  earth  was  by  angels  trod, 
And  leaves  and  flowers  in  every  spot 

Burst  forth  at  the  call  of  God ; 
When  spirits,  singing  their  hymns  at  even, 

Wandered  by  wood  and  glade, 
And  the  Lord  looked  down  from  the  highest  heaven 

And  blessed  what  he  had  made  — 

The  bright,  bright  flowers ! 


BEYOND    THE    RIVER.  271 


BEYOND    THE    RIVER. 


TIME  is  a  river  deep  and  wide ; 

And  while  along  its  banks  we  stray, 
We  see  our  loved  ones  o'er  its  tide 

Sail  from  our  sight  away,  away. 
Where  are  they  sped  —  they  who  return 

No  more  to  glad  our  longing  eyes  ? 
They've  passed  from  life's  contracted  bourne 

To  land  unseen,  unknown,  that  lies 

Beyond  the  river. 

'Tis  hid  from  view ;  but  we  may  guess 

How  beautiful  that  realm  must  be ; 
For  gleamings  of  its  loveliness, 

In  visions  granted,  oft  we  see. 
The  very  clouds  that  o'er  it  throw 

Their  veil,  unraised  for  mortal  sight, 
"With  gold  and  purple  tintings  glow, 

Reflected  from  the  glorious  light 

Beyond  the  river. 

And  gentle  airs,  so  sweet,  so  calm, 

Steal  sometimes  from  that  viewless  sphere ; 


272  BEYOND    THE    RIVER. 

The  mourner  feels  their  breath  of  balm, 
And  soothed  sorrow  dries  the  tear ; 

And  sometimes  listening  ears  may  gain 
Entrancing  sound  that  hither  floats, 

The  echo  of  a  distant  strain 

Of  harps'  and  voices'  blended  notes, 

Beyond  the  river. 

There  are  our  loved  ones  in  their  rest ; 

They've  crossed  Time's  River :  now  no  more 
They  heed  the  bubbles  on  its  breast, 

Nor  feel  the  storms  that  sweep  its  shore ; 
But  there  pure  love  can  live,  can  last  — 

They  look  for  us  their  home  to  share ; 
When  we  in  turn  away  have  passed, 

What  joyful  greetings  wait  us  there, 

Beyond  the  river ! 


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ing a  description  of  the  various  hallucinations  and 
"  nine  days'  wonders  "  which  have  existed  both  in 
early  and  modern  ages.  Cloth,  gilt  back,  $1. 

PERILS  AND  PLEASURES  OF  A  HUN- 
TER'S LIFE. 

By  Peregrine  Herne.  Illustrated  with  colored 
engravings.  Cloth,  gilt  back  and  centre,  $1.25. 

*  »  *  Responsible  agents  -wanted  in  every  part  of  the  United 
States  and  British  Provinces.  For  terms,  &c.,  address 

L.  P.  CROWN  &  CO., 
Publishers,  61  Cornhill,  Boston. 


BOOKS    PUBLISHED    BY 

L.    P.    C  E  0  W  N    &    CO. 


A   BOOK   FOR  EVERY  AMERICAN   AND    FOREIGNER,    CATHOLIC    OR 
PROTESTANT,    ENTITLED 

PAGANISM,  POPERY  &  CHRISTIANITY; 

OR,  THE  BLESSINGS  OF  AN  OPEN  BIBLE. 

By  Dr.  Milner  and  Professor  Berg.    Price,  $1.25. 

ARTHUR'S  SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND 

CHARACTER, 

With  fine  steel  portrait  of  the  author.  Price,  in 
embossed  morocco,  marbled  edges,  and  full  gilt  back, 
$2.  Extra,  full  gilt  morocco,  $3. 

THE   GOOD   TIME   COMING, 

By  T.  S.  Arthur.  Price,  $1.  N.  B.  There  are 
thousands  in  the  country  who  have  been  anxiously 
awaiting  the  appearance  of  this  work,  who  will  now 
have  an  opportunity  of  learning  something  a  little 
more  definite  of  the  long  talked  of  subject  —  "  The 
Good  Time  Coming." 

*  #  *  Agents  wanted  in  all  parts  of  the  United  States  and  Brit- 
ish Provinces. 

Address, 

L.  P.  CROWN  &  CO., 

PUBLISHERS, 

61  Cornhill,  Boston. 


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